


Fight for You

by DemonicHope



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adorable Baby CrossHawk, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Clint, Bottom Clint Barton, Brock Rumlow is my baby and I will go down with him, Brock Rumlow is not a rapist, Brock is an awesome boyfriend, Bucky Barnes and Brock Rumlow friendship, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Coulson screwed up, Deaf Clint Barton, Do not piss off Clint, Established CrossHawk, F/M, Grant Ward is an idiot not evil, Hurt Clint Barton, Hydra is bad but so is SHIELD, Hydra is not Nazis, I need to stop tagging, I will go down with this ship and drag others down with me, Leo Fitz is an adorable baby, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Oral Sex, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 22:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicHope/pseuds/DemonicHope
Summary: After Coulson's death at the hands of Loki, Clint enters a relationship with Brock Rumlow. But when all signs point to rumors of Coulson's death being exaggerated, Brock will have to decide where his true loyalties lie.





	Fight for You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Child_of_demon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Child_of_demon/gifts).



> This was suppose to be a quick one shot for my beta Child_of_Demon that turned into a 27k monster. Brock Rumlow has been my baby since the vault scene in Winter Soldier. Watch it again and say that him and Bucky don't have some kind of relationship. I will fight you on this. Somehow I've dragged Child down with me and this beautiful ship, which works better as a threesome with Pietro, formed. I'm pretty sure it took my soul and remaining sanity with it. 
> 
> Happy Birthday Child!

Bounding through the halls of the Triskelion like a puppy on crack, Clint Barton’s keen eyes scanned the crowd in search of the other members of STRIKE Team Alpha. Cradled ever so carefully against his chest was a gorgeous bouquet of two dozen purple roses. 

Petals tickled his cheek, instinct guiding him towards the private gym set aside for enhanced S.H.I.E.L.D members. 

 

Bouncing on his toes, he fidgeted, unhappy with how long it was taking the basic AI that S.H.I.E.L.D employed to complete his retinal scan. Not for the first time he considered begging/bribing/threatening Tony Stark to make S.H.I.E.L.D an AI that wasn’t a total failure. What was the point of being teammates with the genius if you had to put up with crappy tech? 

 

His mood soured despite the flowers, eyes flickering down to the sloppily bandaged fingers of his right hand. After a moment of debate, he carefully tucked them into the pocket of the oversized STRIKE tactical jacket he wore.  

 

Finally, the AI recognized him, drawing back the door so Clint could pad inside, only to pause, taking a moment to lick his lips at the sight. 

 

Captain America, clad in a skin tight white shirt, nearly see through with sweat, beating a punching bag to smithereens should have caught his eye. Black Widow on a treadmill wearing only shorts and a sports bra, fiery hair clinging to her body. But he only had eyes for the olive skinned man in the center of the room, bare muscles rippling with barely restrained power as the man effortlessly pushed himself through a set of pushups. 

 

A few other members of STRIKE were scattered about, but Clint only had eyes for the dark haired man. Silently he crossed the room, seeing the way bourbon eyes flickered over despite his stealth. Mindful of the bouquet still in his arms, he carefully slung a leg over the back glistening with sweat, before settling down cross legged upon the broad back, roses safely in his lap. 

 

The man beneath him only grunted at his weight, arms unwavering as if he didn’t have 160 plus pounds of archer perched on his back.  Once Clint was settled, combat boots tossed carelessly to the side, the agent resumed his push ups. The gentle rhythm soothed away the nervous tic in his fingertips. 

 

“Soooo....” He drawled, absently picking at a rose petal. “Someone left a bouquet of flowers in my apartment.”

 

“Oh?” Brock Rumlow’s voice was a deep rumble, vibrating through Clint’s jean clad legs. “Got a secret admirer do you?”

 

“Mmmhmm.” Selecting one of the roses, he carefully drew it out of the bouquet, letting the petals trail along Brock’s stubbled cheek. 

 

“Is he hot?” Brock paused his pushups, head cocked to the side. 

 

“Mmm, pretty damn sexy.”  Silky petals tickled the hardened S.H.I.E.L.D agent’s nose, drawing out a grin. 

 

Before he was quite sure what was happening, Brock disappeared from underneath him, drawing a noise he’d forever deny was a yelp. His head was pillowed on a muscled forearm, legs nudged to the side as Brock settled between his thighs, predatory smile twisting his face. 

 

“Lucky guy.” Brock’s breath traced a fiery line up his neck, the rough scrape of stubble against Clint’s clean shaven jaw. 

 

“Get off of me you ass. Squishing my flowers.” Clint whined, wiggling to spare the roses that had ended up between their chests.

 

“I’ll buy you more.” Brock dismissed, calloused fingers tilting up Clint’s jaw, but the archer’s knee found his stomach, prodding insistently until Brock eased off of him enough the roses could slide free. Once they’d been settled a short distance away, Clint was satisfied to turn his attention back to the handsome agent sprawled on top of him. A dark eyebrow raised as Clint made himself comfortable, pressing a thankful kiss to the fingertips that traced his lips. 

 

“Rumlow, get your ass off our archer.”  A voice, that Clint instantly identified as Jayde Jones, shouted. Freeing his hand, he was quick to peg her the finger, before remembering why that was a mistake. 

 

“Clint...” Brock’s fingers wrapped around his wrist like a vice, dark eyes studying the hastily applied bandages. “What happened?”

 

“Can we go back to kissing? I liked that. Way better than you freaking out over a papercut.” Clint schooled his features into an innocent expression, pressing his lips to the corner of Brock’s mouth. 

 

“Barton, you once told me you had a papercut when your finger was hanging on by a piece of skin.” Natasha called from her treadmill.

 

“You hide injuries all the damn time ‘Tasha. You can’t judge me.” Clint shouted, trying to slide out from beneath Brock but already knowing it was in vain. Unless he actually wanted to injure his boyfriend of four months, Brock had thirty pounds of solid muscle and two inches on him. So he went limp, refusing to hold up an ounce of his own weight as Brock manhandled him into a sitting position. 

 

“God you are such a child.” Brock grumbled, grunting as he somehow got Clint’s legs around his waist, hauling them both to their feet. Clint let his head roll against Brock’s shoulder, debating the pros of sinking his teeth into Brock’s shoulder, but decided he didn’t fancy whatever clung to his boyfriend from rolling on the gym floor. So he satisfied himself with digging blunt nails into Brock’s shoulder. Brock’s stubble rough kiss to his neck was met with a knee digging into his stomach. 

 

“Brat.” Brock grumbled, big hands cupping under Clint’s thighs to take his weight. Clint was never sure why Brock just seemed so big to him. He really wasn’t, they were both muscled men from a lifetime of fighting, but compared to the hands and touches he knew, Brock loomed large. The way he effortlessly crossed the room, oblivious to the weight that had to be dragging him down. 

 

Phil never could have carried him, struggling to even support Clint when he’d broken his leg in Nigeria. Phil’s hands were more suited for paperwork, not the scarred, calloused hands that wielded a knife, crossbow, or gun with equal ease. The same hands that could only fumble when faced with the string of Clint’s beloved bow. Phil had never even tried to understand the recurve bow, only dismissed the weapon as solely Clint’s. Yet Brock had spent hours pressed against Clint, cursing and growling at the bow as if it had personally offended him, when arrow after arrow missed the target entirely, until Clint’s fingers had found his belt buckle. 

 

Heart clenching painfully, Clint took a breath, letting his face fall into the crook of Brock’s neck, letting himself be carried and focusing on forcing the blush from his cheeks when a hand that was too big and smooth to belong to anyone but Steve cupped his neck in passing. 

 

“I hate you.” Clint grumbled, hidden from the gazes he was so sure were on him, half considering kicking until Brock set him back down, but Brock’s gentle kiss to his temple had him curling closer. 

 

He felt cool metal against the back of his thighs, Brock carefully maneuvering him to perch on a table, the sounds of sports gear tumbling to the ground helping to situate him, since his eyes remained closed, not wanting to feel the gazes he knew had to be on him. 

 

“Let me see.” Brock’s fingers dragged against the thin skin of his inner wrist, but he waited. Making no move to touch the bandages. “Come on sweetheart, let me see what the damage is.”

 

“S’fine. Took care of it myself.”

 

“Like the blood infection in Turkey?”

 

“Fuck off Nat!” Clint’s protest was met with his horrible, clearly not his best friend’s laughter, as he sought to hide his face further in Brock’s shoulder, hearing the tell tale click of her Starkphone’s camera. 

 

Eyes closed, he tucked his hands back into his lap, a silent refusal to Brock’s request. Mentally he reviewed who was in the room. Steve, Natasha, Jayde Jones, Jack Rollins, and of course Brock.  Steve was fine. They’d seen each other at their worst. Clint had sat in a pool of Steve’s blood for hours, his hands the only thing holding Steve’s guts in after a mission had gone south in the Ural Mountains, while they desperately awaited Evac. Likewise Clint had spent a memorable two days burrowed in Steve’s sleeping bag, wrapped in the super soldier’s arms sweating and shaking his way through the toxins of a poison delivered through the bite of a terrified mutant. After that, there was little Clint cared if Steve saw. Probably wasn’t much he hadn’t seen after that mission. 

 

Natasha. Clint knew she’d seen him at his worst. He’d seen her at hers. There was no such thing as privacy or self-decency, or anything at all left between them. Hell, she’d held his dick so he could pee once, too injured from another mission that had gone south. 

 

Brock...his boyfriend had been his friend since he was a terrified teenager, half feral and angry at the world. Fighting tooth and nail against the men holding him down, refusing to listen to Coulson’s promises until three days later, when the threat of death scared him more than joining S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

But Jayde and Rollins, they were his friends yes, they were close enough to see him carefree and happy, but his wounds? They hadn't unlocked that level of friendship yet. Probably never would. The Avengers and Brock were on the only people left alive with that right. 

 

Of course Natasha understood. She always did. 

 

“Jones, Rollins, go shower. You’re stinking up the place.”

 

“But....”

 

“That’s an order Rollins. Move it.” Steve’s command joined Natasha, followed by footsteps and a door closing. 

 

Peering out through his eyelashes, Clint saw Steve quietly tugging a first-aid kit out of a locker, while Natasha padded towards them, tossing a stick of gum in her mouth as she did.  Reassured, he lifted his hands back up, silently offering them to Brock. A quick kiss to his bandaged knuckles followed the steady unwrapping of the gauze. 

 

“What did you do dumbass?” She popped a watermelon scented bubble in his face, flicking his nose with her finger when he crinkled it.

 

“Didn’t do nothing. Stupid explosive arrow again. I drew it and it just exploded in my hands. Way underpowered or else I wouldn’t have hands. It’s nothing really, just a few burns.”

 

“Babe, I don’t even have all the bandages off and I can see the shrapnel. Rogers get your pretty little ass over here, I need your eyes.” 

 

“Excuse me, I’m Hawkeye!” Clint’s objection was met with a Natasha’s talons digging into his thigh and Brock nipping his lip in punishment. “Guys! I’ve had a lot worse.”

 

“He has. And he still didn’t treated it.” Natasha tattled, tilting her head back to greet Steve as the overgrown puppy slunk over to them, carefully wiggling his way in so he could lean against the side of Clint Natasha wasn’t already occupying. 

 

“Barton, you know the rules.” A hint of Brooklyn peeked out of Steve’s words, looking about as thrilled to deliver the statement as Clint was to hear them. 

 

“Rules? We have rules? Because I sure as fuck know the rules don’t apply to Stark and if they don’t apply to him, they don’t apply to me, because I’m not an emotionally stunted child,...That fucking hurt you bastard!” Clint hissed, yanking his arm out of Brock’s grip as the last of the gauze fell away. 

 

“Your own fault for being an idiot. I know you can bandage wounds better than this Gorgeous. You stopped me from bleeding out.” Not taking his eyes off his work, Brock reclaimed Clint’s hand, which he stubbornly refused to look at. Not wanting to see the burned, scraped, slashed up mess. He could still draw his bow, he’d tested that even before bandaging the wounds, that’s all that mattered. 

 

Steve’s displeased noise was nearly drowned out by Brock’s curse. 

 

“I’m killing the fucker who made that arrow. Don’t give me that look Gorgeous. You had a concussion last mission when your grappling hook failed. Something is going on and I’m going to slowly carve out the heart of whatever bastard is fucking up.”

 

“He got a new supplier. We had an email. Tony has been making our tech after Manhattan, he made my stealth suit and Natasha’s new widow bites. But Clint told him whoever had been making his arrows knew his balance preferences. Two months ago, I got an email that we either had to ask for a new supplier or have Tony make us anything else we wanted. Something about the techie in charge of our stuff being transferred. Clint was supposed to tell Tony he wanted him to make his arrows.”  Steve was already tugging out his phone, carefully scrolling through his emails. Clint debated the pros and cons of smacking it out of his hand, but couldn’t do it. Not with how pleased Steve looked with himself for managing to find the appropriate email without anyone’s help. 

 

Brock’s eyes skimmed the email, his fingers leaving Clint’s injured hands, face going from caring boyfriend to hardened solider in a fraction of a second. 

 

“Brock no.” Tugging on Brock’s sweatpants was useless, Clint trying to rise to his feet, but his lap was suddenly full of Black Widow, Natasha looking far more entertained by the proceedings than could ever be good. 

 

“Shh. I want to see what he does.”  

 

“And I want you to stop meddling in my love life.” Clint hissed back, pretty sure he’d done nothing to deserve the cuff to the back of his head she gave him. 

 

“Donald Marshall.” Brock whispered, Natasha’s hands covering his mouth before Clint could object. Brock nodded to himself, before turning back to Clint, already back in boyfriend mode, gathering Clint’s hands up so carefully in his own. 

 

“Brock, don’t do anything stupid.” Clint warned, wincing when Brock delicately picked a tiny sliver of metal out of his thumb. Steve was pressed close to his second in command, murmuring softly whenever his enhanced eyes picked up piece of shrapnel. 

 

“Wrapping this fucking up. You know, for a smart guy you are a fucking idiot Gorgeous.” Brock grumbled, Clint’s complaints falling on deaf ears, and as a deaf man, he was highly insulted by this. 

 

“Brock I mean it. It's fine. I don’t need you, or Steve, or Nat to fight my battles for me. I got a couple of faulty arrows. It happens.”

 

Steve’s big paw squeezed his shoulder, forehead furrowed. “I don’t get it. Why don’t you just ask Tony to make your arrows?”

 

“Stark’s got bigger things to worry about than my arrows. It's fine.” 

 

“Natasha aggravated him for four hours last month because her widow bites didn’t match her nail polish.”

 

“Excuse me for trying to look good when I kill someone.” 

 

“Why don’t you just use a different color nail polish?” Brock asked, because this was a conversation they were actually having. Because this was Clint’s fucking life. 

 

“Because I expect backups that color coordinate with my wardrobe. I can switch my bites a lot faster then I can change my nail polish.” Natasha studied her nails, today they were the color of freshly spilt blood. Clashing with the glossy black of her Widow Bites. 

 

“See? Stark needs to put his efforts into Nat’s accessories. Not my arrows. Actually he really needs to focus on a helmet Steve can’t get off. We start every fight with Cap’s thick skull nice and safe, but halfway through, I look over and he’s got it off again. Do you want your brains to be scrambled AND freezer burnt?”

 

“Says the man who doesn’t even wear a helmet.” Brock muttered, drawing a hiss of pain from Clint when his tweezer dug into a gash with more force than Clint thought necessary. 

 

“Hey, I’m way up high. No one is bashing my skull in.”

 

“Until you fall off the roof and land in a dumpster.”

 

“That happened....five times. Shut up Nat.”  

 

Steve,- because fuck the Captain America image. That boy was an asshole troll to rival Stark - leaned forward and prodded Clint’s shoulder. “Looks a little swollen. Might have to tell Fury that you need time off.”

 

“What? No, I fucking don’t! My shoulder is fine.”

 

Steve tilted his head, humming as he kept poking and prodding, because the jackass now had medical knowledge. Clint had been there when the idiot tried to take Tony’s pulse through the suit. He couldn’t even be trusted to tell dead from alive, much less a shoulder wound. His shoulder was fine! He wasn’t even lying through his teeth for once!

 

“It does look swollen.” Brock agreed, because he wanted to sleep on the couch and have quality time with his hand for the next six months. 

 

Natasha hummed in agreement, toes digging painfully into his thigh. Clint’s betrayed eyes only met with a bored expression. 

 

“I think it will be good to go by our next mission, but if your arrows are going to keep failing, I can’t risk you taking further injury. What if we have another invasion and the Avengers have to assemble again? I need you at full strength.” Steve’s face was that earnest Captain America one they’d used on posters for decades, to encourage stupid people to enlist to get blown up. But Clint could see the twitch to his lower lip, fighting a smile. 

 

“You are a bastard. I’m going to write the history books and make sure they know just how much of a manipulative little shithead you are.” Clint stubbornly tried to cross his arms, but Brock wouldn’t let go, so he settled for a stern look. That totally wasn’t pouting. No one asked Natasha her opinion.

 

The smile that had been threatening to break out turned sad. Steve scuffed his foot against the ground. “Yeah, well...Bucky already tried that. I’m gonna...I’ll call Tony and see how soon he can get some arrows done.” 

 

The soldier fled before Clint could finish kicking himself. Groaning, Clint thumped his forehead into Brock’s shoulder, unable to find the strength to care when Brock finished pulling apart his skin and began to slather burn cream all over him. 

 

“Clint, we can’t keep pretending Steve didn’t have a life before we defrosted his ass.” Natasha tugged his hair gently. “He needs to deal with it and move on. He’s not doing it and I’m tired of tiptoeing around him, because he misses the 40’s.” 

 

“Did you ever actually tiptoe around him?” Brock mumbled around the medical tape in his mouth.

 

“Do you like my hubby’s tight little ass? Because I own that ass. And if you want to keep having access to it, you will shut up.” 

 

Choking on his own saliva, Clint stared at the woman in his lap. “Natasha!”

 

“It's the truth.” Patting his cheek, Natasha kissed his temple. “Now you are going to take me out to dinner, while Rumlow goes and scares a techie into pissing himself.” Sliding off his lap, Natasha caught his wrist, hauling him up just as the last piece of tape fell into place. 

 

“You realize I had dinner plans for us.” Brock pointed out, but Nat was already hauling him out the door, just giving him time to press a kiss to Brock’s lips in thanks and snatch up his flowers.

 

“Pizza doesn’t count as dinner plans dumbass.” He called, before the automatic door slid shut, Natasha dragging him along like a ragdoll.

-_____________-

Absently rubbing at the flaking bit of dried blood that coated his knuckles, Brock Rumlow let his motorcycle rumble outside a S.H.I.E.L.D hangar on some base he’d never even heard of.  

From where it was tucked in his leather jacket, his Starkphone chirped with an incoming text. Tearing his eyes away from his target, he killed the engine, sliding off the gleaming Indian Chief motorcycle, before checking his phone, a smile coming unbidden to his lips. 

  


_ Waiting for Nat to break out the dominatrix outfit and whip, Rogers looks terrified. _

**_Tell her if there is a mark on your delectable ass I’m making her watch Stark’s sex tape._ **

A second later his phone pinged again. 

_ Like she doesn’t watch that for her own amusement.  _

Shaking his head, Brock quickly replied, sure he could spare a few moments,  **_Tell Rogers I’ll make him watch it if he doesn’t leash his attack spider._ **

_ I’m gonna have to dump you if you refer to my precious Widow as an attack spider. She’s the Empress Queen of my Heart. I belong solely to her. _

**I know. I’ve seen the Property of Natasha Romanoff tattoo. Babe, you are lucky you can pull off a tramp stamp.**

A long minute passed between messages, long enough for Brock to remove the zip ties from his saddle bags and transfer them to his pockets and check his clip. When his phone finally pinged, it was from a number labeled simply ‘Queen’. 

_ Fuck off Rumlow. Clint is mine for the night. His phone has been confiscated. We are having a girl’s night.  _

**_Drop dead Romanoff. I want him returned in the morning. Gonna have a present for him._ **

Brow scrunched up he sent another message before she could reply. 

**_How did your number get in my phone?_ **

_ Next time you bang my hubby in the locker room shower, watch where you put your phone. It's almost too easy to get blackmail material on you :P _

  
  


Shaking his head, Brock pocketed the phone, focusing instead on the mission at hand. His S.H.I.E.L.D badge gave him instant access, none of the drowsy guards wanting to question why a Level Seven agent was prowling around. 

Jogging swiftly across the tarmac, gun drawn, he headed for the hangar a terrified Donald Marshall had provided him with the address of. At least he thought it was the right address, the tech had been kinda hard to understand, what with the blood pouring down his face from a shattered nose, voice distorted and choked by blood.  Writing it down had been the only option, made difficult by a broken wrist of the tech’s dominate hand. The knife to his throat probably hadn’t helped, but Brock couldn’t be blamed for losing his temper. The little bastard had gotten blood on his nice button up shirt that had been a gift from Clint

The techie had been more then happy to give up the location of a Leopald Fitz, the adorable Scottish kid that Brock vaguely remembered delivering a quiverful of arrows to Clint after the Battle of Manhattan. Brock shuddered at the memory. That had been a bad time, not even Natasha and his own efforts could coax a smile out of their archer. But the tiny ball of sunshine had bounded over to the teary eyed, snot covered man and launched himself at the Avenger, seeking a hug. 

Then, as if they’d known each other for years, despite Clint confirming they had just met, the kid has started babbling on about monkeys of all things, and for the first time since Natasha had been forced to break the news of Coulson’s death to him, Clint had smiled. 

If the sight hadn’t been such a relief, Brock would have been insulted some wizkid managed to coax some signs of life from Clint when no number of his hugs and jokes had gotten the slightest response, except for his leather jacket being used as a snotrag.

The hangar’s security was pitiful. Stark, who had the spy skills of a drunk gorilla, could have slipped in. Three cameras! Three! He didn’t even have to bother avoiding them, because one plus of dating an Avenger, you got access to all of Stark’s toys. 

The EMP, designed to look like a car fob had the cameras fried with the simple push of a button. The hangar door was easy enough to slide through, left partially open as if waiting for someone to return. 

The jet inside was probably impressive to someone who hadn’t gotten a blowjob in the bathroom of Stark’s Quinjet. After seeing the effort Tony Stark put into aiding people in joining the mile high club there wasn’t much in the world of aviation that impressed him. 

Slinking along the edges of the hangar, he searched for any sign of Fitz, knowing the details from Fury’s computer said the kid was assigned to ‘The Bus’. The amount of glee Tony Stark had gotten out of being asked to hack Fury’s computer was slightly terrifying. If the strung out, fresh from a nightmare sound of his voice was to be trusted, the poor bastard probably needed the distraction. Maybe he could talk Romanoff into helping him hogtie Rogers. If Natasha’s lewd remarks were to be trusted, nothing would be a more appropriate thank you present than a naked super soldier. 

Of course Rogers wouldn’t appreciate it. Clint was more than happy to counter Natasha’s rumors by stealing a pair of battered dog tags from a heavily sedated Steve during a mission outside of Peru. 

The glimpse of James B. Barnes embossed on the time worn metal was more than enough to have them scrambling to return the tags to their rightful place around Steve’s neck. 

And if sometimes Rogers clung to the dogtags in a way that reminded Brock a bit too much of his Army days, of crying wives and girlfriends clutching the dog tags that were all that remained of their lovers, well, Clint didn’t complain if he held him a little too tight that night. 

Rogers and him had come to an understanding, unspoken but known between them. A brotherhood of sorts had been forged, born of a bone deep mutual understanding. Both of them had spent their childhood with bloody knuckles and split lips, would have taken their last breath in the back of an alley if not for the saving grace of the Army. Both had found their heart and soul in a blue eyed sniper. And now they had spilt countless gallons of blood, both their own and others, fighting back to back in more fights than Brock cared to count. 

So when his eyes came to rest on a infamous red 1962 Corvette, his fingers didn’t hesitate to snap a picture, sending it along to Captain America with a plea for backup. Knowing that one glimpse at that car would have the Avengers assembling and hot on his heels.

Tucking his now silenced phone away, Brock crept along the sides of the hangar, needing to get close. To make sure he wasn’t going crazy, because he could think of no rational explanation why Lola was sitting in the cargo bay of an airplane that hadn’t been in use since before Brock’s Army career had ended.

He didn’t dare risk entering the plane, instinct telling him that was the stupidest thing he could do without background. If the old girl had been dragged out of the mothball fleet for a refit who knows what upgrades she could have. Besides, any attackers would have the high ground and in close quarters, Brock’s survival sense rebelled, so he was forced to rapidly snap pictures of the possible Lola, before slipping off. It only took a minute to confirm that the car was, in fact, Lola. A pea sized spot by her right taillight, the paint not quite matching, the touchup paint just a few shades darker than the original from a hasty repair after an incident with Natasha’s Widow Bites. 

That was all he needed. Retreating to his motorcycle, he retreated to a side street, waiting for his backup. 

Lola was here. Brock remembered a red eyed Clint standing in front of Fury, face still damp with tears, as he demanded to know the location of Coulson’s beloved car. Only to watch some final bit of control shatter when Fury told him the car had been crushed when Loki destroyed the base. Clint had disappeared for hours afterwards, to the point not even Natasha could track him down. He appeared the next day in Brock’s bed, stinking of booze and looking like his face had been smashed in by a brick, clutching the keys to his own Dodge Challenger, a toy version of Lola dangling from the keychain. 

A look back at the pictures showed Lola’s own keys devoid of the familiar purple Challenger charm. A fact that didn’t sit right with Brock. 

Groaning, he left the motorcycle behind, instead choosing to strike out on foot, needing to move. Head low, baseball cap pulled low, it didn’t take long for him to reach the main road that lead to the small S.H.I.E.L.D airport. 

What did Lola being on a plane mean? If Fury had lied about her being destroyed what else was he lying about? Why even lie about Coulson’s car being destroyed? It wasn’t like Clint had much left of his husband. Sure, Lola could fly but she was far from unique in that. Stark Industries had made flying cars since the late 40’s. There were maybe fifty in existence, just because the cars weren’t that practical. Sure they were great for a quick getaway, but with a range of less than fifty miles, only a handful peppered S.H.I.E.L.D’s ranks. Lola was vintage, with even more issues and lacking modern computers and weaponry. There was no reason to keep Lola as part of the fleet, she’d been retired a few decades before, ending up in Coulson’s hands thanks to her infamous history as Peggy Carter’s personal car. 

Alongside the retired plane it seemed someone was gathering relics of S.H.I.E.L.D’s past together? Why would anyone do that? Unless they were Phil Coulson levels of nerdiness. 

Phil Coulson...Lola...A plane that was designed to fly under the radar, to keep S.H.I.E.L.D’s early leaders far from harm and the meddling paws of the government. A reassigned technical genius. 

Pulling out his phone once more, he found the information Stark had sent him, giving it more than a cursory look. His Level Seven clearance should have pulled up the information from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database, yet it had taken Stark’s hacking abilities to find the assignment of one Leopold Fitz. The data sheet was mostly classified, to the point Stark had admitted he needed more time to fully uncover it, but it gave him enough. At the time he’d just assumed Stark was pissy he was missing some crucial tech details, but as read over the file, he knew it was far more. 

 

**_CXD 23215 Airborne Mobile Command Station: S.H.I.E.L.D. Globemaster 6-1-6 “The Bus”_ **

**_Level 7 EYES ONLY_ **

**_Assigned Agents:_ **

**_CO: Level Eight: CLASSIFIED LEVEL_ **

**_XO/Pilot: Level Seven: Melinda May_ **

**_Engineer: Level Five:  Leopold Fitz_ **

**_Doctor: Level Five: Jemma Simmons_ **

**_Specialist: Level Seven: Grant Ward_ **

**_Civilian Consultant: CLASSIFIED_ **

**_Assigned Base: CLASSIFIED LEVEL NINE_ **

**_MISSION: CLASSIFIED LEVEL NINE_ **

The rest of the file was blocked out, Stark’s text complaining that not even Steve’s access code could break in. But of course. Rogers, despite being Captain Fucking America was only Level Eight. 

Melinda May. What was the Cavalry doing out in the field? Wasn’t she banned from field work because of a breakdown? 

Leopold Fitz, his genius little techie who was handing over Clint’s arrow specs so Stark could make arrows that suited his boyfriend. 

The girl he didn’t know, but the last name on the list Boocaught his attention. 

Now what was a Hydra Wolf doing amongst the sheeps of S.H.I.E.L.D.? That alone would warrant the call that Brock’s fingers itched to make but the sight of a familiar SUV, one he’d run protection on more times than he could count?

Dialing a number he’d only used a handful of times, Brock paced, waiting for a familiar voice to answer. 

“Yes? Director Pierce? It’s Brock Rumlow. I need the Asset.”

  
  


-_________________-

 

Three hours. That’s how long Brock had been waiting for the Avengers to assemble at the ramshackled warehouse Brock had chosen to be their temporary base of operations. 

 

What did it say about how much more efficient Hydra was, that the Winter Soldier had been defrosted, shoved into his tactical gear, and dropped off at his location by one of the underlings, before the Avengers had shown? Sure, four techs had died and nobody seemed to be inclined to scrub the blood off Winter’s metal arm, but at least he was ready. What was Rogers doing? Putting on his makeup? Bending Stark over the nearest flat surface? And there was a mental image he didn’t want. 

 

Thumping his head against a piece of rusting machinery, Brock tried to keep half his attention on Winter. The Soldier’s face was obscured by his mask, pawing at his face, only his icy eyes visible. Eyes that bore into Brock’s skull with a look of such betrayal he was amazed he didn’t liquify. 

 

“Don’t start Winter. I didn’t Trigger you. That was Jones.” Brock lifted his arm, crooking his fingers. “Come on big guy. Settle down, you can kill some people soon.”

 

The huff he got in response let him know that his original plan wasn’t going to work. Stashing Winter nearby, with a comm in his ear and orders to only barge in if things were going south just wouldn’t work. 

 

The Soldier was twitchy, unable to sit still for more than half a second, prowling around, rifle groaning under the grip of a metal hand. The scurry of a rat across the floor had the gun raised, only Brock’s gruff warning kept the rat from being splattered against the wall. 

 

Brock was going to throttle Jayde Jones when he got his hands on his fellow Hydra Agent. Why she felt she needed to trigger the Winter Soldier to take him on an hour car ride was beyond the agent.  The Soldier had been his to command for six years, fourteen missions, and never once had the string of Russian words left his lips. He never understood why thirty one handlers had perished by the Soldier’s hand. The worst wound he’d gotten in that time was when a panicked Winter, fresh out of the Chair, had busted his lip open. 

 

After being Triggered, the little trust Brock had managed to hold onto despite the wipes and sessions in the freezer, was gone.

 

If he stashed the Soldier somewhere, his plea for help would go unanswered. A restless Winter always meant a trip to either Brooklyn, Italy, or an always fun trip to the ice fields of Greenland. Why the Soldier was fascinated with those places was beyond him, but his file was filled with countless instances of the Soldier disappearing on missions or killing his team and always heading to one of those three locations. Brock really wasn’t in the mood to spend a month of his life chasing a jackass super soldier across an ice field. 

 

Which meant he got to take a guy that may or may not be Bucky Fucking Barnes on a mission with Steve Rogers and pray to Loki that Rogers didn’t realize who was behind the grimy hair and mask. If this fucking worked by some miracle, he was dragging Clint’s ass to bed and they weren’t leaving it for a month. He deserved some down time if he managed to pull this off. 

 

“Winter, I know you’re pissed buddy, but this is for my boyfriend.” Digging his phone out once more, Brock turned it so the Asset could see, watching gunmetal blue eyes take in the scene. The sniper duo had met before, something neither knew about.  Or remembered in the Asset’s case. 

 

It was taken three weeks earlier, after a particularly brutal fight that had one too many close calls for anyone's liking. Steve, still experimenting with his new Starkphone, had been snapping away, catching mostly blurs and images of his gloved thumb, but a few gems had been captured. 

 

The best, in Brock’s humble opinion, was a photo of them, just stepping off the Quinjet and to the relative safety of American soil. A rookie agent had been waiting with Clint’s beloved one-eyed Labrador mix, Lucky or Pizza Dog as he was more often called.

 

Clint had dropped his dog’s leash, giving Brock no time to brace himself before he leapt up, legs wrapping tight around his waist, while Brock had been left scrambling for a grip on Clint’s thighs, backing them both up until they hit a wall. Somehow they made it work, in suits and tactical gear,  both crunchy with dried blood and sweat and looking like they’d been caught in a sandstorm, weapons still hanging from their bodies. 

 

Quiver pressed to brick, bow still dangling from blood stained hands wrapped about Brock’s shoulders, Clint’s head was thrown back in a laugh, looking like some sorta of avenging angel, even as Brock’s own lips chasing his. Though Clint would argue the best part was Lucky sitting before them, his lone eye staring at the camera with a look that clearly said “Can you believe this shit?”

 

It had instantly become Brock’s lock screen, fuck regulations about no personal momentos on phones. Fury could bite him. 

 

“That’s my boyfriend. He goes by Hawkeye, he’s a sniper like you but uses a bow. I told his teammates to leave him behind but if I know Clint, he won’t listen. Your mission is to protect him. Even if that means tossing him over your shoulder and dragging his stupid ass out of here. Got that?”

 

The Soldier nodded, had tilted to the side, before he raised a metal arm and pointed silently at the catwalk above their heads. 

 

“I might as well just castrate myself now huh?” Brock told the Asset, who nodded along in an almost cheerful manner, as Brock plastered what he hoped was an innocent expression on his face. 

 

Clint was standing above him, suited up with his bow in his hands. The arrow notched and ready in his bandaged fingertips was different than the ones Brock was familiar with, which might be a good thing. 

 

“Hi baby. Have I mentioned how much I love you recently?” Brock tried, feeling the Asset at his back snort in what had to be amusement. 

 

“You called the Avengers together and picked up that Russian sniper, and thought I’d be happy being left behind?”

 

“Well.” He drawled, “Not happy. Just...less emotionally fucked up if I’m right” Brock tried, knowing his excuse was weak.

 

“I saw the photo. That’s Lola.” The tightness to the archer’s voice was all he needed to hear before he opened his arms. Clint ignored the offered hug, nimbly leaping down from his perch. 

 

“Stark and Rogers are waiting outside. Nat’s with them.” Clint managed a slight smile. “Hey big guy. Still not a fan of the whole talking thing?” 

 

Winter slunk behind Brock, growling at the archer behind his mask. Clint pursed his lips, “Still not too fond of me either huh?”

 

“Don’t take it personally babe. He doesn’t talk to me either.” Brock ran his hand soothingly over Winter’s arm, “He only tolerates me because I feed him.”

 

“I’d believe that if I hadn’t eaten your cooking and spent the next day puking.” Clint ignored Brock’s offered hand, trying to bump shoulders with the Winter Soldier, who scurried behind his handler with a distrustful glare. 

 

“Okay, I’ve worked four missions with this guy, he’s saved my ass before, and he still won’t talk to me or let me touch him. One of these days I’m going to demand details.”

 

Ignoring Clint’s latest attempts to socialize, Brock nudged Winter to along, leaving the safety of the warehouse to find the three other assembled Avengers.  

 

Captain America, Iron Man, and the Black Widow were crowded together. Cap rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. 

 

“Sorry Rumlow, he insisted.”

 

“Ehh, I expected it.”

 

“And who is tall, dark, and murderous and.....and is that arm turning anyone else on?” Stark piped in, already stalking towards the Winters Soldier, who skittered back behind Brock, because he was so much less breakable than the fucking super soldier. 

 

“Gimme!” Stark, because he had the manners of a two year old on a sugar high, made grabby hands at the Winter Soldier, who stared at him with wide eyed incredibility, slinking through the Avengers in a borderline pathetic plea to escape Iron Man. 

 

Brock honestly would have saved him, it was his job, but Clint chose that moment to forgive him, if the way he tucked himself into Brock’s side was anything to go by. Of course, he also could just be leaching away his body heat, either was an option. 

 

“Tony, that’s enough!” The Captain’s voice shockingly did absolutely nothing to sway Stark away from his fascination with the vibranium arm. But what it did do was have the Asset freeze with that wide eyed look he still got when Brock allowed him actual food, not that slop Hydra tried to feed the poor bastard. 

 

Brock had seen a lot in his thirty-nine years, but Captain America stepping forward, trying to shield the Winter Soldier behind his bulk, from an overly exuberant Iron Man was something new. But that was nothing compared to what followed. The Winter Soldier, knife seeming to have materialized in his hand, practically throwing himself forward, shoving his way between the Avengers with a feral snarl, knife pressed to the metal of Stark’s throat, back to Roger’s chest, leather and kevlar against reinforced spandex. 

 

“Did....Did Winter just willingly touch someone that wasn’t me?” Brock choked out, watching as Stark backpedaled, hands raised innocently. 

 

“Fine,. Fine. Not like I was trying to make the arm badass or anything. Nope. Just keep protecting your boyfriend Terminator.” Stark stomped back to Natasha’s side, “Is there a reason I was called here? Because sorry Cap, I really don’t think I can be best man at your wedding, the attention is suppose to be on the bride, and as gorgeous as I’m sure you look in silk, I’d just steal the spotlight. I really don’t do it on purpose. It's just part of being...well me.”

 

“No one is getting married.” Natasha finally spoke up, side eying the Winter Soldier and please god say it was one of the other Winter Soldiers that used the Widow for target practice or else he really was dead.  “Rumlow has something on Coulson.”

 

“Yeah, I saw. A shitty picture of a hunk of prehistoric scrap metal. Anything else or can I go back to Malibu?”

 

Taking a breath, Brock stepped forward. “Yeah. Six months ago Fury pulled a vintage plane out of retirement. It's a mobile command center, second only to the Helicarrier. Thing is, after the Helicarrier, they were mothballed, because they don’t have the range or crew capacity S.H.I.E.L.D needs. But this one is back.”

 

“Maybe Fury just wants to take a nice vacation. Work on his tan and doesn’t want a cavity search at the airport.” Stark suggested, reclining against a wall, faceplate still down.

 

“Except he’s been quietly squirreling away some pretty heavy hitters. File is classified, Stark even admitted it will take him time to break it.”

 

“Only because you haven’t given me a reason to care.”

 

Ignoring Stark was easy. Normally. Right now Brock was seriously considering a string of Russian followed by orders to sever tongues. 

 

“Melinda May.”

 

Steve whistled lowly. “Even I’ve heard of her. She’s one of the best. Up there with Romanoff in hand to hand.”

 

Natasha’s cool glare spoke volumes over how much Rogers was going to pay for that statement, but Clint’s quiet scoff said even more. 

 

“She was the best before I found Nat. Now? I think Bruce could take her, even without going green. She doesn’t understand that when a Mission shatters you, you glue yourself back together and deal, not hide your head in the sand.” The irritation was clear in the archer’s voice, even swatting away the comforting hand Brock tried to place on his ass. 

 

“Either way, the fact he dragged her out is a big deal.” Scanning the list of names again, Brock continued. “Leo Fitz.”

 

Stark lifted his head at that one. “I know him. Tried to snag him for SI, but S.H.I.E.L.D. already had their claws in him. He’s a genius, and that’s coming from me.”

 

“He figured out the trick to making my explosive arrowhead.” Clint piped in, tolerating the kiss Brock pressed to his temple. 

 

“Anyone else?”

 

“Jemma Simmons.”

 

“Biologist. Bruce was babbling about her. She’s supposed to be good. He was considering letting her consult on the Other Guy problem.” Stark clunked closer to Cap, sending the Soldier skittering back to Rogers’s side with a snarl that was mostly ignored by the Avengers, Tony settling with his chin on Steve’s shoulder, faceplate sliding back. 

 

Brock spared a moment to make sure Winter wasn’t going to get pissy and stab Stark in the eye, but the assassin seemed satisfied with pacing around, scowling as he did. 

 

“Grant Ward.”  Brock winced as Clint tore away from him, even Natasha looking startled before her usual mask slid into place. 

 

“The kid Fury keeps muttering about?” Steve asked, head tilted until he banged into Tony’s helmet. 

 

“Who else? Because that kid has Garrett for a fucking handler. And if Garrett’s involved with Lola...that’s bad.” 

 

“For those of us who aren’t S.H.I.E.L.D?” Tony yawned, nose brushing against Steve’s neck as the Captain absently reached up to brush his fingertips in a soothing gesture against Tony’s cheek. The tiny smirk on Iron Man’s face when that earned another growl from the Winter Soldier had Brock shaking his head, vowing not to get involved in whatever the fuck that was. The Winter Soldier deserved to get laid, though Brock wasn’t explaining to the techs how the Asset caught an STD from Stark. Or did his whole super soldier thing stop that?

 

His musing was interrupted by Clint snatching the phone out of his hand, scrolling through the small amount of information they had. 

 

“Level Eight Agent on a field mission? Fuck that.” Clint tucked the phone back into Brock’s pocket, pinching his ass as he did. “You aren’t forgiven, but I might consider forgiving you in the next three weeks.

 

Brock’s lazy salute earned himself a grin, as all eyes turned to Steve. 

 

“He’s...a..uhh what should we call you?” Steve asked the Asset who only tilted his head, blinking big blue eyes at him. 

 

“Don’t know. He doesn’t talk. I think his tongue was cut out. Brock calls him Winter though.” Clint piped in, already thumbing through his arrows. 

 

“Did I mention Fury went into the hangar?” Brock brought up, grinning when Steve’s eyes lit up, an obvious plan forming. 

-_________-

Two sets of eyes were boring into his back, Brock stood quietly beside Captain America as Iron Man flew low over the hangar. Almost instantly the screams and shouts started, security personal running out of the guard towers, three of them. Such a show of force, and each one was downed by the Widow before they could so much as draw their weapons. 

“You know, I’m almost embarrassed to be part of S.H.I.E.L.D.” Steve observed, casually popping a piece of gum into his mouth, not even flinching when the Winter Soldier dropped down at his side. Only offering him a piece. 

Brock knew the Soldier was conditioned to only accept food from his handler. It was in his operation manual. And yet, he quietly accepted the gum from Steve, rustling the wrapper noisily before slipping it into his mouth. 

“Winter get over here.” Brock called, snapping his fingers. 

The Soldier glanced at Steve, then back at him, before turning his back to Brock, pressed close to Steve’s left flank, rifle actually resting against Steve’s shoulder. 

“I am so fucking dead.” Brock whined, throwing a pathetic look at Clint...or where Clint should be. Knowing Clint, he’d found some tiny, tight space that was damn near impossible to reach to make his nest. 

Steve lifted his wrist to his mouth. “Hit it Stark.” 

Iron Man twisted in the air, “Is that an invitation Cap?” The leer obvious in the comm, and when the fuck did Winter put one in his ear? Someone was stabbed in the eye with a spoon last time that was tried. 

Traitorous bastard. 

His annoyance had to wait, because Stark’s stomach was almost scraping the hangar roof, diving low, before pulling up with his usual flair. His hand repulsors whinned to life, the infamous flare of light followed by a hole appearing in the metal sides Iron Man darting inside before any of them could move. 

“I said take out the cameras. I know I said that. Why can’t he ever listen?” Steve complained to the Asset, who was loping along at his side like a well trained hound. 

The echo of gunshots followed by dead silence met them at the hangar, Stark lounging on Lola’s hood in full armour, posing like a model in a swimsuit magazine. “I helped.” He chirped, yelping as Winter shoved him off the Corvette as he passed. Brock stepped over the flailing Avenger.  

Natasha darted ahead, blending into the shadows, flattening herself against the wall, an arrow slicing through the air above her head, puncturing the cargo ramp and sending out a plume of smoke. 

The ramp was starting to rise, no agents rushing out, but before they could close more than a few feet, the shield was arcing through the air, tearing through the supports, showering Natasha in sparks as she spun to give him the finger. Winter shouldered his way between with his own snarl. 

“Are you two going to break out the ruler soon?” Stark asked, letting Steve haul him to his feet. 

Duel looks of disgust met Stark’s words, Brock choosing to clear his throat before an actual fight broke out. “Shouldn’t we be running a rescue mission?”

“Coulson’s dead. Trust me. You didn’t see Thor’s face. He saw the whole thing.” Stark argued back.

“He might be dead. But that doesn’t mean Lola doesn’t have some hidden info. Coulson...him and that car had a weird relationship.”

“Mechanophilia anyone?” Tony asked, raising his repulsors once more. Steve reached for his shield, but Winter was already there, tugging it free and offering it to the Captain...and was that a shy look? Hard to tell with mask, but the blue eyes looked very unmurderous. 

Brock wasn’t even going to ask. 

“Where is everyone?” Clint’s voice crackled in his ear, “If Coulson...”

The plane’s engines rumbled to life for a few scant seconds before Stark and Rogers raised their weapons in unisons. One engine met a vibranium shield, the other a repulsor blast, sending the plane crashing back to earth. 

“Come out. Come out, wherever you are.” Tony shouted, sing songing as they advanced towards the still smoking cargo doors. 

“Maim only. Try not to kill.” Steve ordered, shield raised to cover both himself and Winter, the Soldier’s gun pointed over his shoulder, as they barged inside in one smooth movement. 

Two agents rushed them, one easily recognisable as Melinda May, Natasha veering to the side to cut her off. The second took one look at the fight, eyes like saucers at the sight of the Winter Soldier, before smoothly dropping to his knees, hands behind his head in the next movement. 

Brock jogged forward, not liking the trigger happy expression on what little of Winter’s face he could see. 

“Stay down kid.” Brock rumbled in Grant Ward’s ear, kneeling at his side, fixing the zip ties around his wrist in a way he knew Grant could wiggle out of if he needed to. “Hail Hydra.” 

“Hail Hydra.” The boy breathed back, eyes still wide as Winter decided he wasn’t worthy of his attention, instead watching Natasha get her legs around May’s throat, flipping the other woman to the ground, widow bites jammed deep into her neck. 

Gunshots rang out over their heads, Steve’s shield moving to cover Winter and himself, Stark stepping in front of Romanoff. It was so nice to see how much he mattered to them, as bullets peppered the ground only feet from him and Grant as he hauled the kid back up, trying to drag them both behind the SUV. 

Another smoke arrow filled the plane, shielding them from the gunshots, giving Brock time to drag Ward behind the cover of the SUV, but blinding him in the process. The bullets pinged off the SUV, providing him with a chance to catch his breath, Grant leaning heavily against his legs, coughing on smoke. 

“Sir? Why are you with the Avengers? Why are they attacking?” Grant’s eyes were red rimmed, Brock silently tugging his canteen free of his tactical belt, tilting the kid’s head back with gentle fingers on his chin. Grant’s puzzled expression at the gentle treatment had him softening his hands even more, flushing the irritation from the kid’s eyes, dabbing at the excess moisture with his own shirt. 

“Well we have two theories. One, Coulson is alive and being held hostage and tortured in here. You know since he was cremated and no one saw his body, and only Thor saw him get stabbed. We’re here to save him if that’s the case. Or two, the more popular theory, Coulson hid some juicy details in Lola, and there is a team trying to figure out how to get it.”

Grant opened his mouth, hopefully to explain this clusterfuck, only for a bullet to wiz by far too close to Brock’s ear for comfort. 

A strangled shout, the very distinct sound of a body falling and hitting the floor from a decent height. 

“Thanks babe!” Brock shouted, laughing when another arrow sped by his ear, embedding itself in the thigh of an approaching agent, somehow finding a weakness in the tactical gear. 

“Did these jackasses miss the memo? The only person allowed to shoot you is me. Okay and Nat, but only if you really deserve it.” Clint’s growl really shouldn’t be so sexy. Grant was even looking at him strangely, but what did the kid know about love. 

“Love you too babe.” Brock blew a kiss in the general direction he thought Clint might be hiding out. The snort in his ear telling him he was nowhere close.

The smoke was starting to dissipate, letting him see the bodies, each life ended by a familiar arrow. 

The Avengers were slowly standing, Natasha coughing slightly,  the tiniest show of weakness allowed, resting against Stark for a few precious seconds, before stomping back to her usual place at Cap’s side 

“Rumlow?” Steve called, the Asset firmly glued to his side. 

“I’m alive.” Tugging Grant up with him, Brock placed a comforting hand on the younger agent’s back. “Come on kid. They won’t....”

“Put your hands up...oh.” A voice squeaked out, Ward’s head shooting up with blind panic in his eyes.

A petite boy with adorable curls was standing before the catwalk, clutching an odd looking rifle aimed at Captain America’s chest. 

“Fitz!” Grant’s shouted, wrenching at Brock’s hold on his arm, “Get down you idiot!”

The kid, because apparently Fury was craddle robbing now, managed a wide eyed look at the Hydra agent thrashing in Brock’s hold, before screaming under the onslaught of the Winter Soldier. 

Metal fingers tore the gun out of Fitz’s finger tips with a cry of pain, twisting the barrel into a neat little knot, before the kid had human fingers closing around his neck, lifting him effortlessly into the air, the boy scratching uselessly at unmoving fingers. 

“Winter! Bad! No! Drop it! I said drop it!” Brock shouted, struggling to keep a hold on the now screaming Grant, mindful of the other agent’s tricks. 

The Soldier glanced at him, seeming slightly curious but far from interested in obeying his orders. 

“Winter? Is that your name?” Steve asked, his voice quiet as he stepped forward, shield low and hanging uselessly on his arm. 

The Soldier shook his head, frowning at the Avenger while the boy in his hold gurgled for air. Stark’s hand was starting to glow and great, he was going to have to explain to Pierce how their super soldier got blown to smithereens by Iron Man. Clint would throttle him if he got his brains blown out over this fuckcluster. 

“Okay, not your name. We’ll have to talk about that later. But how about you put the kid down? He didn’t hurt me or anyone else.” Steve promised, ignoring Natasha who was slipping around the Soldier, Widow Bites glowing faintly. 

“I’m tired of waiting. Let’s put Ole Yeller down or...wait does this guy have rabies? Is that why he’s got the mask?” 

No one was surprised when Fitz was pretty much thrown at Stark, landing in a tangle of limbs at his feet. The scientist scrambled up, gasping and rubbing at his neck, tripping over his own feet as he fled to the safety of his teammate, colliding solidly with Ward’s chest. The Hydra officer smoothly stepping over to shield the younger man. 

“We good now or is anyone else coming out that door?” Clint droned in their ear, the false boredom in his tone obvious as he nimbly landed at Brock’s side, smiling at the two captured agents in their grasp. A chaste kiss was brushed to his lips, as Brock dug out another set of zip ties.  “Hey, no putting those too tight on the baby. He’s too cute to lose fingers.”

“Why don’t I just leave him free so he can point another gun at Cap? Winter would just love that.” Brock snarked, already fastening the ties around delicate wrists. If the kid felt like dislocating his thumb he could get free, but something told him the kid didn’t have the balls. 

“Are you here about Skye? I really didn’t think the Rising Tide was worth the attention of the Avengers. Especially now. Coulson has the situation under contro...why are you all looking at me?” Fitz’s rambling turned into a squeak, all eyes on him.

Clint’s face was a emotionless mask that bode well for no one, shrugging off the hand Natasha tried to put on his arm. 

“Coulson? He’s here?”

The scientist glanced at his teammate nervously, pleading clear in his eyes. 

“Answer the question soldier. That’s an order.” Rogers barked, rising to his full height to glare down at the two bound agents until Ward sighed. Dark eyes flickered to Rumlow’s face, his slight nod giving the Hydra underling permission to speak freely. 

“Yeah. He’s been with us for a few months. Ever since he returned from Tahiti. We’re his new team.” Ward explained, flinching back when Clint’s fist collided with the windshield of the SUV, over and over. 

“Babe?” Brock whispered, risking a step closer, but a feral snarl from the archer warned him off. He hovered uselessly a few feet away, watching as Clint’s fist grew bloody, the wounds beneath the bandages opening up, new cuts forming at the drag of glass on skin. 

“Come on baby. You’re hurting yourself. Punch me, not the glass.” Brock tried again, not even noticing Steve snapping an order at Stark to tear apart the plane’s computer system. 

Clint didn’t spare him a look, not when flecks of blood caught his face, blue eyes glazed over to the point Brock doubted he even felt the pain. 

“For fuck’s sake Barton, get your head out of your ass for five seconds and stop this shit.” Romanoff snapped, stalking right up and smacking Clint upside the head. “Punching a car. Really fucking smart. Save your energy for that fucking bastard, not hurting yourself.” 

Clint pushed her away, leaving a streak of blood down the arm of her suit, resuming the unwavering stream of punches.

Winter whined softly around his mask, prowling around, clearly feeling as useless as the rest of them. Stark was silent for once, only a few soft commands to his AI, as Steve hovered in the background. 

“Come on baby. That’s enough. Please.” The pleading in his voice always worked on Clint, but he could be on his knees begging right now and Clint wouldn’t even look at him. 

Natasha shared a worried look with him, but she seemed to lack the panic the rest of them were feeling. “Give him a minute. He’s done this before.”

“This has happened before? Where the fuck was I when it happened? I’ve never seen this!”

The usually sharp eyes softened. “I took him to the Red Room.” 

That was all she said and it was more than enough. Because what other explanation did that need? Those two words, the horrors they contained. Brock was Hydra and his stomach twisted at the very thought. 

Two minutes passed. Probably the longest minutes of his life, but like a switch had been flipped, Clint dropped his hands, took a deep breath, and then, as if nothing had happened, ducked down to retrieve his bow. 

“Move your asses. We’ve got a mission.” He called over his shoulder, marching inside and shoving between Steve and Tony like this was a normal occurrence. 

“And you guys say I’m the one who needs therapy.” Stark muttered

“Leave the prisoners.” Steve ordered, chasing after Clint. Brock raised an eyebrow at Ward. 

“Gonna disobey Captain America kid?”

“No sir.” 

Trusting the Hydra boy wasn’t stupid enough to act up with the Winter Soldier right there, Brock jogged after his boyfriend, not wanting to leave Clint alone even if he did trust the Avengers to look after him. 

The agent wasn’t sure if he wanted Fitz to be lying. Which would hurt Clint more? Coulson dead or Coulson alive and ignoring him? Brock wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but doubted he’d get a choice. 

The first person they came across was a sweet looking girl with a British accent, hiding out in what appeared to be a kitchen of sorts.  Seeing them, she all but threw herself into Clint’s arms, shaking and terrified, babbling away about attackers. 

“Jemma. Not now! Sweetheart I know you’re scared, but I can’t protect you right now. So go into the cargo hold, your friends are there.” Clint kissed her forehead, sending the girl off with a little push. 

“We’re just letting her go?” Tony asked. 

“She’s a scared kid and not a field agent. I doubt she’ll do anything. If she does, Nat can handle her.” Clint nodded at Steve. “Take left flank, keep you pet with you, god knows you can’t watch your own back. Stark, computers. I want everything on this plane. Jarvis, find any references to Coulson. Natasha, make sure no one gets in behind us.” The orders hesitated, Clint reaching out silently with his hand. “Brock?”

Stepping close, Brock took Clint’s bloody hand into his own, brushing a kiss across ruined knuckles.“Right here baby. Whatever you need, I’ll do it.” 

“Just...stick close okay?” 

The Hydra Agent looped his fingers through the straps of Clint’s quiver. 

“So what? Do you have to be blonde to lead the Avengers? Because I honestly think I’m far more qualified than Legolas....can you please stop Terminator from aiming a gun at my balls? Unlike the rest of you I actually do use them.”

“Hey Stark. Check the S.H.I.E.L.D STRIKE Team Alpha locker room cameras..” Brock leered at the Avenger. “Clint’s very flexible.”

He wasn’t sure which was worse. Stark’s gagging  or Cap’s look of pure horror. “They have cameras in there? We’re naked in there!”

“Focus boys.” Natasha drew her gun, nodding to Clint. Slowly they started to clear the rooms, finding a lab that Stark instantly took over, frowning at the holoscreen, mumbling softly to Jarvis in tech terms that were far about Brock’s paygrade. 

“Get everything possible. We’ll finish the sweep. Natasha, stay with Stark.” The archer’s orders were obeyed without complaint, even Stark seeming to realize now wasn’t the time to be rebellious. 

Two rooms in, Winter went rigid like a gundog, a warning Brock knew well. He only had seconds to shove Clint to the floor, throwing himself over his boyfriend, seeing Winter take Steve to the floor with him 

The explosion that rocked the plane seconds later sent smoke billowing up around them, the plane’s shuddering sending debris down on their heads. 

When the shaking stopped, Clint shoved him off, already back on his feet before even Winter could get up. 

“Who the fuck is trying to blow up a fucking plane? They do realize bombs and jet fuel do not mix right?” Clint coughed, twisting to hide his face against the kevlar of Brock’s shoulder, the crackling of fire from somewhere inside the plane a lovely sound. 

“Let’s hurry this up. I’ve already been frozen, I don’t feel like testing my ability to recover from burns.” Steve pressed a hand to his comm, helping the Soldier to his feet with the other. “Stark? Got flames, hurry it up and get the hell out of here. Natasha, drag him out if you have to. Those computers aren’t worth his life.”

“I’d like to argue that.” Brock piped in, kissing Clint’s temple when his boyfriend moved in for what he thought was a hug. Until he heard the sleeve of his jacket rip. 

“Hey! I liked this jacket.” 

Clint’s unimpressed look spoke volumes as he tied the cloth around his face. “I like my lungs. Not all of us are...whatever the hell you and that one...” Clint nodded at Winter, who for once seemed pleased with his mask, “Or a super soldier like Cap.”

Brock spluttered, but his boyfriend only poked him. “Babe I’m deaf. Not stupid. No one heals as fast as you. No one heals from a gunshot wound in three weeks. Except Cap. But we know why he does it.”

Clint turned, obviously done with the conversation as he sauntered towards an opening in the plane where the flickering of flames cast a dull orange glow onto the walls. Because apparently Avengers ran towards fire instead of away. They were very sane like that. 

The cause of the explosion was easy enough to determine. Steve’s sharp whistle had Winter diving into the flames, dragging a girl from the center of the flames by her throat. The weak way she coughed, yet still clutched the pin of a grenade, told them enough as Winter dropped her at Steve’s feet like a cat delivering a mouse to its owner. 

“Now who is this?” Brock knelt before the girl, grasping her arm to haul her back up. “You aren’t an agent.”

“Screw you.” The girl’s spat was cut off by Winter’s snarl, oh look who  finally remembered his handler. 

“She’s probably the civilian.” Clint didn’t spare her a glance, eyes focused on something on the wall. “Just knock her out and toss her with the others.” 

“That seems a bit extreme...” Steve trailed off watching as Winter’s metal fist collided neatly with the girl’s skull, tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

It only took thirty seconds for Winter to disappear and reappear with the girl now gone from his hold, slotting himself back into place beside Steve, silently offering him a gun. 

“Uhhh....I don’t use...”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. He’s sharing. Take it. I touched his gun once, and he tried to break my hand.” Clint snapped, striking Steve with his bow as he stalked by. “Hurry up assholes before I decide Stark is better backup.” 

Steve carefully accepted the gun, the SIG that the Soldier normally had holstered in the back of his tactical pants. The rate their little relationship was going, Brock was going to have to give his Asset the sex talk pretty soon. You didn’t just share your weapons. 

Of course as he thought that, he felt his favorite knife being tugged from his thigh sheath by Clint. See? Boyfriends shared. Not strangers.

“One more agent and Fury according to the files.” Brock murmured, pressing close to Clint’s back. The archer hummed in agreement, the halls narrowing till they were forced to walk shoulder to shoulder. A silent agreement had the snipers taking point, the bulky forms of Steve and Brock guarding their backs. They’d left the flames behind, the steady hiss of water from the sprinklers dousing the fire. 

Rounding one less corner, close to what had to be the living quarters of the plane, they came across the people they were looking for. 

The noise Clint made would forever haunt his dreams, giving his nightmares the noise of Clint’s heart being shattered when the men turned to look at them. 

The man on the right was Fury, looking grim, but none of them spared a glance at their director. 

Because standing beside him, very much alive and unharmed, with no signs of imprisonment, was Phil Coulson.

“Clint.” The calm way the bastard said the archer’s name somehow made it all the worse. 

“Coulson.” Clint took a step forward, bow at the ready. “You’re looking very undead.”

“I can explain.” The Agent tried, the arrow embedding itself in the wall a hair’s breath from his throat silencing him.

“Yeah? How are you going to explain ten years together, seven of them married, only to not tell me you’re fucking alive. Huh, Coulson? What reason could you possibly have for not telling me?”

Fury stepped forward. “Enough Barton! It was classified information, need to know only.”

“Need to know? It's my fucking husband! Fuck classified. You tell someone when their husband is alive.” Clint was shaking, yet his hands somehow remained steady, his arrow not wavering as he switched his target from Coulson to Fury, eyes shining bright. 

“Clint, I’m sorry, but you weren’t high enough to know.”

Steve took a step forward, his own gaze boring into Coulson. “Really? I’m Level Eight and I knew nothing. Yet you have two Level Sevens and a pair of Level Fives outside.”

Hand raised in a placating gesture, Coulson dared a step closer. “Clint, I know you’re upset and I understand that. But you have to understand, this was for the good of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the job! I only joined and stayed because of you!” The tears that had been threatening to spill over now slid down pale cheeks, Brock forced to hover uselessly in the background, wanting nothing more than to pull Clint into his arms after unloading his clip into Coulson, but he knew this was one matter he couldn’t protect his boyfriend from. 

“Clint, we’ve talked about this before. You know I love you...”

“Funny way of showing it. I mean, I love him, pretty sure he loves me or he’s a really good liar, and I’d never fake my own death and not tell him.” Brock cut in, unable to stop the possessive edge to his voice, crowding into Clint’s personal space. Partly to make sure Coulson knew that he was Clint’s now, that they belonged to each other, partly to reassure Clint that he was there. 

Beside him Winter snorted. Because they needed his input on the situation. 

Coulson looked wounded, glancing between the two men, “You’ve moved on.”

“Well yeah. It’s been eighteen months since I thought you died! Brock was there for me. He’s been my friend for years and come on Coulson, we all know if he’d gotten the balls to ask me out before you did, I’d have said yes to him. Actually I should have told you to shove it and asked Brock out myself. At least he doesn’t lie to me.”

Winter’s choking noise was oh so helpful. Brock considered shooting him in the throat, if his guilt didn’t rear its ugly head. It wasn’t technically lying, Clint had never actually asked him, “Hey are you part of any secret government organisations that’s plotting world domination?”  Because Brock wouldn’t have lied. Sure he might imply first it was just S.H.I.E.L.D. but still. He'd tell the truth. Eventually. 

“I assumed it would take you longer than this to move on.” Coulson’s voice held a note of bitterness. “Ten years together and you move on this fast? Or was it happening before the incident with Loki?”

Dead silence filled the plane, before Clint, calm and collected as if he was undressing at the end of a mission, slid his quiver over his head, turning to Brock with a pleasant expression on his face. 

“Babe, can you hold my bow?” 

Silently Brock accepted the familiar weight of Clint’s quiver, slinging it over his shoulder as he cradled the bow in his hands, knowing Clint wouldn’t forgive him if he damaged his baby. 

Rolling his neck, Clint bounced on his toes, before crossing the plane. Coulson held open his arms, as if accepting Clint to go for his usual hug, face filled with forgiveness, as if Clint was the one who’d wronged him. 

At his shoulder Winter snickered quietly behind his mask, Steve rolling his eyes at the heavens in what had to be agreement. 

Instead of bounding into the offered arms, Clint pulled back his own, fist colliding with Coulson’s nose an instant before his knee came up, jamming into Coulson’s crotch as the agent howled in pain. 

“BARTON!” Fury shouted, going for his gun as Clint’s leg swept Coulson’s feet out from under him, sending the older agent to the ground, kicking him sharply in the ribs as he went. 

Brock shoved the bow into Winter’s arms, barreling into Fury the second Clint’s weapon was safe, taking the Director to the ground. Fury spun beneath him and for only the fourth time in his life, Brock realized he was outmatched. Grunting in pain as a knife tore through his kevlar, glancing off his ribs, Brock struggled to unarm the director, when he heard the crunch of bone, his own wrist twitching at an unnatural angle before the white hot pain set in. The distraction wasn’t much, he was trained to fight with a lot worse than a gash to his ribs and a broken wrist, but it was enough to reverse their positions, Fury straddling him and that was just a disgusting thing, the cool metal of a knife to his throat. 

Beside him Clint and Coulson were in an almost identical position, except Clint’s fight, if you could call it that, was going far better. Coulson’s face was a bloody ruin, Clint fists slamming into it over and over, even as the archer sobbed, tears streaming down his face, shoulders shaking in restrained rage.

“Are we done here Rumlow? Or do you want to keep being a pain in my ass and spend some time in the ICU before your trip to Antarctica.”

The blade against his neck had the primal part of the agent’s brain curling up and whimpering, but trust ran deeper in a Hydra agent than even instinct. Getting his knees tucked up, he lashed out with his feet, lifting Fury off his body as a shield curled through the air, striking the man in the chest and sending him toppling backwards and into a wall, head cracking against the wall. Red, white, and blue blocked his vision, Steve holding out a hand in silent offering, which Brock gladly accepted, letting Steve haul him to his feet, pressing a hand to his ribs as he did. 

“You okay?” 

“I just got owned by a senior citizen. At least when it’s you I can blame the serum.” Hissing, Brock studied the blood staining his hand. “Fuck. Clint likes me in this shirt. Think I can get the blood out?”

“There is the matter of the knife hole in it.” Steve helpfully pointed out, pressing his own hand over the wound. Winter had disappeared, something that should bother Brock more than it was, but his attention was drawn back to Clint. 

He’d stopped his hits, Coulson’s face looking like a bloody crater, Clint’s hands were going to take weeks to recover from the beatings they’d sustained today, but Brock knew Coulson was going to require surgery to fix his jaw at the very least. 

Standing up abruptly, Clint stalked to his boyfriend, sharp eyes taking in his bleeding side, but he simply snagged the gun in his shoulder holster, turning around to take aim. 

The confines of the plane echoed with the shot, nearly drowning out Coulson’s scream. Disappointment rose in Brock at the noise, realizing Clint had only shot the man in the gut, a perfect shot that he knew wouldn’t strike anything vital but would hurt like a fucker for months. 

“I’m done.” Clint said simply. “I’ll have Tony’s lawyer deliver the divorce papers.”  Turning on his heel, Clint simply walked away, looping his fingers in Brock’s belt buckles in a clear show of who he chose. As if the beat down hadn’t done that. Steve eased him onto Clint’s shoulder, pick up Clint’s bow and his shield. 

Winter chose that moment to reappear, lugging a duffel bag  and seeming far too pleased with himself. Butting his head into Steve’s shoulder like a cat, Winter fell into line easily. 

Tony and Natasha were waiting for them, faces grim. Clint ignored their questions, shrugging off the hand Natasha placed on his wrist. 

“Let’s get you home buddy.” Steve murmured, smoothing Clint’s hair with his hand as they limped out together, Brock absentmindedly tossing a knife in Ward’s direction as they passed. The team they defeated seemed like the last of their priorities now.

“I just wanna go home.” Clint’s voice was a hoarse whisper, tucking his face into his boyfriend’s neck. 

“Your apartment?” Steve asked gently but Clint shook his head.

“S.H.I.E.L.D owns it. Not home.” 

“Well I happen to have a building in New York with Avengers written on it. With a floor for each of us. Anyone wanna bunk there?” Tony asked, the soft clunking of his suit a familiar soothing noise in the background, 

Clint nodded, eyes fixed ahead as Tony softly commanded Jarvis to ready a plane for them. 

“Anyone want anything special? Bruce says he’ll get the rooms ready himself. I didn’t key anyone that’s not Avengery into the rooms, figured Natasha would blow her room up looking for tampering or something.”

Tony continued to babble, Clint tilting his head, some of the exhaustion leaving his face. Natasha slid under Clint’s other arm, silently offering her support as Tony walked backwards, hands waving.

Side by side they left the hangar, no one even questioning how a sleek Quinjet was already waiting for them on the runway, plastered with the Avengers’ logo.  Stark kept up his chatter as they boarded the jet, taking the pilot seat himself. 

A crisp British voice that Brock had only encountered on his rare trips to Stark- now the Avengers-Tower greeted them as they settled inside. 

“My sensors are indicating Agent Barton and Agent Rumlow both have sustained injuries. There is a medical kit underneath Doctor Banner’s seat.  I am also unfamiliar with the man accompanying Captain Rogers.”

“He goes by Winter, Jarvis.” Steve explained, crouching down to tug a massive Army issued medical kit out from underneath a seat that was larger than the others, clearly intended to seat the Hulk if needed. 

Clint settled beside him, leaning into his side as Steve moved near them. 

“Take care of Brock first. I don’t like that stab wound.” Clint mumbled into his shoulder. 

“Clint....” Steve hesitated, looking between them. 

“He’s not going to let you look at him until Rumlow’s done.” Natasha called from where she’d wedged herself into the cockpit with Tony. 

Winter took the med kit from Steve’s hands, slinking up to him, eyes down. 

“Oh? Finally decided I exist?” Brock shifted, giving the Asset access to his side as Winter quietly opened the kit. Seeing the downcast look, he was quick to reassure. A brooding Winter Soldier usually meant either an escape attempt or Brock attending a colleague’s funeral. “Not mad big guy. Glad you found someone you like other than me.” Ruffling the grimy hair, Brock managed a smile for the Soldier, even as Winter’s nimble fingers began to wipe the blood from his side. Absently toying with the dark hair, Brock allowed himself to study Clint who was slumped against his side, eyes closed. Brushing his thumb over Clint’s cheek, Brock settled, feeling the slight sting of a needle piercing his flesh, Winter peering up at him innocently. 

“That bad huh? Okay buddy, just stay with Cap, until I can get you back to base.” Resting his head on top of Clint’s, Brock let the sedatives take over, eyes flickering closed. He knew when he woke he’d have to make choices that he didn’t want to make. Ones that would shatter S.H.I.E.L.D and Hydra. That could easily spell death for himself and perhaps to docile Soldier leaning against his legs. But at that moment, he couldn’t care. Content to rest, protected and reassured by the presence of the Avengers, with Clint safe in his arms, he allowed sleep to claim him.

 

-_______________-

Standing on the roof of the Avengers Tower and screaming Thor’s name, with demands for Heimdall to open the Bifrost, with a bossy petite teenager, had left his throat raw and his mood even worse than when they had started. 

Lowering his cupped hands, Brock threw a sneer at the girl sitting cross legged at his feet, typing away on her phone. “He’s not showing up. You said this would work.”

“I said it might work. Do I look like an expert on space, time, travel or whatever it is Muscles does? No. Political science is my thing.”  Darcy didn’t even spare him a glance. “Did you try praying? Maybe he’s like an angel or something and only hears prayers?”

“You want me to get down on my knees and pray to a blonde idiot that claims he’s a god?” Brock asked slowly, staring at the girl, who simply shrugged. 

“If you loved Clint you would. He’s been in the air vents...for what 4 days? With untreated wounds? If I was his partner, I’d be sacrificing a virgin to Thor. Think Steve would work or has that Winter guy already popped his cherry?” Darcy wondered out loud. “Oh do you think Jarvis recorded it?”

Maybe while he was praying for Thor to get his ass down to Earth, he could pray for a stray bolt of lightning to hit him. It had to be more pleasant than the last four days. 

Waking up on the Quinjet to Winter half in his lap, pawing at him like an overgrown cat was never pleasant. Finding his side devoid of a certain archer less so. Finding out Clint had bolted the second the Quinjet had set down at the tower was awful. Jarvis finding footage of a bloody, tear streaked Clint disappearing into the air vents with a few bottles of whiskey was devastating. Spending four days leaving food outside the vents, staring the camera feeds for any sign Clint had ventured out of his self-imposed exile, knowing how his wounds had to be festering, all while keeping the Winter Soldier in line, had hit record levels of shitty. 

His phone was increasingly filled with messages to report in. To deliver the Winter Solider back to cryofreeze.  Brock had thrown it off the Tower’s roof that morning. 

Clint was missing. Sure, he was still in the Tower, Jarvis swore there was no way he could have escaped without him knowing, but he was still lost in a maze of sixty floors. Refusing to come out, not for Steve’s orders, Tony’s threats of making his new arrows explode into a cloud of glitter, or Brock’s own pleads. 

His lone attempt to get into the air vents and climb through them had resulted in a 3am lecture from Bruce Banner as Tony Stark got to play with a blowtorch dangerously close to his crotch 

as he was cut free of the vent. 

Apparently the vents were designed by Stark to be just wide enough for Clint to pass through them, anyone bigger would be trapped or unable to even fit inside. Brock was still nursing bruised ribs from his brilliant idea of trying to shove the Black Widow into the vents to track down her wayward teammate. He was just grateful she hadn’t decided to bust every bone in his body. 

Winter probably could have fit in the vents, fuck his larger than normal body, the man was like a cat. If he could get his head in something, the rest of him would somehow wiggle through. But Winter was currently...doing something with Rogers. 

Four days without the Chair, without Trigger phrases, without a mission, had done wonders for the Soldier. The personality Brock had only glimpsed before slipping out. Winter had always been playful, stealing Brock’s phone to play games, sneaking up behind him and slipping ice cold metal fingers up his shirt. Anything he could to drawn a yelp out of Brock, before darting a safe distance away. 

Now that mischievous side was coming out more and more, Steve and Winter locked in some kind of game of cat and mouse, Winter darting close, depositing whatever item he’d stolen, usually food, a blanket, once an arc reactor from Stark’s lab, in Steve’s lap, before disappearing into the halls. Leaving behind a bewildered Steve, who just couldn’t seem to wrap his patriotic little brain around the fact he had the world’s greatest assassin courting him. 

It would have been adorable, if Brock wasn’t missing his own boyfriend. A boyfriend that was probably spiraling while he sat screaming for a fucking alien. 

“Did you try sounding the alarm?” Darcy popped her gum, glancing up at him like he was a particularly stupid toddler. 

“The one that means the planet is under attack and the Avengers are needed? Yeah. He poked his head out, saw Stark wandering around in pjs and disappeared back inside before I could grab him.”

“And Thor’s going to help how?” Darcy asked, going back to her phone.

“Clint might hear Thor and assume it's a real call to assemble. It's not like Thor shows up that often.” Brock knew his excuse was weak. He didn’t need to see it all over Darcy’s face. But he was growing desperate. Clint didn’t spiral like this. Not even after Loki, no, he’d picked up his bow and fought aliens. After Coulson he let himself grieve then threw himself back into the job. This wasn’t normal. 

Rubbing at his temples, Brock took a breath. “Alright Thor. What do you want? Do you really need a virgin sacrifice? Because I like Rogers and I’m not doing that to him but I’m pretty sure Banner would work. Want him?” 

“Eww.” Darcy complained, Brock decided he’d had enough of her commentary. If she wasn’t going to call down her pet alien, she could go.

“Shoo.” Grabbing her arm he hauled the girl to her feet, shoving her towards the access door. Once Darcy disappeared, he turned back to the sky, taking a strengthening breath. 

“Okay Thor. I’m praying here. I’d get down on my knees but Clint gets bitchy if I do that for anyone that’s not him. I need you to come here. Clint’s in bad shape, he’s not listening to me. Natasha says it's not a big deal, he just needs time, but I’m pretty sure that’s the worst thing for him. And yeah, it's a longshot that he’ll come out if he hears you are here, but that’s all I got. You’re suppose to be a God. I know you’re not, but if you watch earth or you buddy does like the myths say, I’m pretty sure you keep an eye on your team. And they need you. Clint needs you.”

Brock stood, head bowed, hands in his pockets. Waiting and hoping, praying at Thor would answer. That the God would help Clint in a way he couldn’t.

Just when he was going to give up, to go back inside and sit outside an air vent and plead with Clint, the metalic taste of ozone coated his tongue, static crackling in the air. 

Stumbling back, he shielded his eyes with one hand, cursing at the rainbow beam of light in front of him, squinting through the glare to see a man he’d only met once before. His ribs twinging at the memory. 

Thor looked around the roof, standing tall and imposing in full armor, his precious hammer clenched in one hand. 

“We are not acquainted, yet Heimdall claims you called for me.” Thor tilted his head to the side, looking more like a confused puppy then the opposing god the Avengers tried to make him out to be. Clearly the magic was all in the hammer, Brock just had to figure out its tricks. Preferably before Stark did and declared himself a God. 

“S.H.I.E.L.D Agent Level Seven Brock Rumlow. ” His rank should have elicited some sort of response but Thor simply raised an eyebrow. Sighing, Brock kicked moodily at the ground. “Clint’s boyfriend.”

“I was unaware the Hawk’s beloved was still alive. My understanding was he was married to the Son of Coul who perished at the hands of my brother. You are not that man.” Thor’s grip on the leather wrapped handle of his hammer tightened ever so slightly. Brock wondered if Winter would come to his aid if he pissed Thor off. Probably, so long as Rogers didn’t require fussing. 

“Well, he moved on. I’m the new boyfriend. Better one in fact. Speaking of Coulson, tell your nutjob brother next time he kills someone, make sure they are actually dead.” The rage, building since he’d set eyes on Lola, bubbled like a capped volcano, seeking a weak spot, an outlet. He considered punching Thor, but starting an intergalactic war would not be good for Clint’s mental health. Or his sex life. Clint frowned upon those sorta things.

“I do not understand. Agent Coulson is dead. I saw him perish.” Thor looked away, shoulders hunching. 

Without Clint or anyone he gave a fuck about to temper it, Brock felt no need to check his usual charming personality. If he couldn't use Rapunzel for a punching bag, especially after New Mexico, then he saw no need to curb his mouth. “Oh don’t give me the sad act. You barely knew the guy. It's not like you were in the trenches with him. So you met him...twice? Three times tops. And he didn’t let Clint torture you. Big fucking deal. But we have bigger problems. That fucker? He’s been alive this entire time. Clint just found out and went fucking ballistic.”

Thor’s growl triggered a primal part of Brock’s brain, reminding himself that Thor was no drunken brawler, some terrorist with special forces training of whatever shitfuck country he served, not a mercenary who hadn’t realized money wasn't worth loyalty. 

Thor was a being that inspired primitive beings worship. A myth brought to life. Who, even stripped of his powers, had torn through Brock’s STRIKE Team like Winter ripped apart whatever tech who earned ire. Brock should be on his knees, pleading for mercy, trying to look like a devote little worshiper. Not pissing him off. 

But Brock had never done the smart thing. He was the man who got busted balls deep in a General’s son and landed a dishonorable discharge from the Army. Who, instead of slinking home to lick his wounds, had found the first asshole willing to pay cash for the blood he was so talented at spilling. Had jumped at the offer made to him by a fresh faced Alexander Pierce. To belong once more to a unit, something to sooth the ache left inside him when the brotherhood and loyalty he’d only just tasted in the Army was ripped away. He was the rookie Hydra Agent, standing in a pool of blood from men who should have been brothers, yet turned his stomach. Staring into glacier eyes, the cool bite of metal against his forehead, the sound of a hammer being cocked back ringing in his ears. A plea for his life would have been the only rational thing that should have fallen from his lips, but instead, soaked in blood, he’d grinned up at a man trapped inside a feral and said “Yeah, I didn’t like those fuckers either Winter.” He was the man with questionable sanity, who considered the Fist of Hydra a brother, when no one else had ever earned that title. 

So he crowded into Thor’s personal space, neck craned back to meet the Asgardians eyes, knuckles white as he stabbed Thor in his breastplate with a finger. “You fucking left.”

“I did. My peo-..” Thor leaned back, face baffled as Brock followed him, forced to rise on tiptoes. 

“No! You don’t get to just leave asshole. Jesus Fucking Christ how am I the one with the normal fucking team? Winter even gets this.”

“What does a season...I do not understand.” Thor took an uncertain step back. 

“When you fight together... that forms something. A bond that you don’t fuck with. Clint had your back. He was fucked up by your brother and he pulled himself together and managed to keep you assholes safe and this is how you repay him? You fucking left. You. Stark. Banner. At least Romanoff and Cap tried to stay with him. Your brother used him as a puppet to kill his friends! Innocents civilians. And you just gathered him up, because god forbid Loki actually fucking pays for his crimes, and left Clint to pick up the pieces of himself. And now, when Clint really fucking needs you, you act all offended because I dragged your stupid ass back to help us mere mortals.” Brock shoved the God as hard as he could, anger bubbling all the more when Thor didn’t even stumble back, only tilted his head to the side like a quizzical puppy. 

“You do realize I am a prince with a realm of my own to protect?” Thor asked, almost lazily swatting Brock’s hands aside. 

“I don’t give a shit.” Brock knew he was lashing out. Thor’s reasoning was sound. He had to return the Tesseract and Loki to Asgard, but he hadn’t been able to pummel Coulson, so he was going to have to settle for Thor. 

“Your team...They are everything. If you aren’t fucking loyal to them, then you are useless shit and don’t deserve them. The Avengers...they are fucked up. But they’d die for each other and you somehow got lucky enough to be part of them, and you assholes are fucking it up.” 

The anger deflated like balloon. Stepping back he gave Thor some space, shoving his hands into his pocket as the God silently studied him with eyes too old for his twenty-something body. 

“You are angry. Not at me...But at someone else.”

“Wow. You’re an insightful one. Glad to see the rumors of the Norse stupidity is false.” Sarcasm dripped from his words as Thor just stared at him in puzzlement. 

“You spoke of Clint? Has the Hawk been harmed?” 

The way Thor hefted his hammer cooled a touch of Brock’s helpless anger. The God was clearly concerned. That knowledge cleared some of the blind rage from his eyes. 

Clint needed him. Not his childish temper tantrums. He needed help. And Brock was in a position to get it for him. Closing his eyes, Brock forced himself to breath, to take the deep steadying breaths the S.H.I.E.L.D. anger managment team was constantly coaching him through. 

“Yeah. He’s not good. His hands are a mess, probably worse now since Clint is shit at caring for himself.”

“What do you mean worse? Have your healers not been tending to him? What enemy harmed him? Have they been vanquished?” Thor pushed past Brock,now  focused  on finding his teammate. “Where is he?”

“Thor. Thor! Wait!” Grabbing at the Asgardian’s arm, Brock dug his heels in, straining against Thor’s strength.

But the God dragged him along effortlessly, undeterred by a two hundred pound man dragging him down, barging down the short flight of stairs that lead down into the penthouse. Tony was nowhere to be found, not surprising, Brock hadn’t seen him up here once since they’d arrived. Stark either lived in his lab or lurked around Steve, poking at Winter whenever the Soldier was within arms reach, desperate to touch the vibranium arm. Winter always darted away before he could touch it, Brock was half convinced it was becoming a game between the two, Tony’s fingers getting closer and closer each time. 

Thor seemed to know where he was going, pulling Brock down the emergency staircase instead of the perfectly nice elevator that was right there. 

The floor below the Penthouse was the Avengers’ shared territory and the place they’d all been staying while waiting for Clint to reappear. Steve was curled up on the massive L-shaped couch, legs tucked under him, Winter sprawled across his lap like an overgrown cat, his face being used to prop up Steve’s sketchbook. Stretched out on Steve’s other side was Stark, head pillowed on the Captain’s calf, studying a Starkpad balanced on his chest. 

Steve looked up from his art at the heavy footsteps, a broad smile splitting his face when he saw who was barging out of the stairwell. “Thor!” 

Dual yelps from Winter and Tony sounded as Steve stood, depositing them in a tangle of limbs on the floor. So much for Winter’s gracefulness. 

The Captain and the God instantly embraced, Thor’s movements so careful as if Steve was something fragile. Brock absently rubbed at the fingerprint shaped bruises already blossoming on his arm where Thor had gripped him. 

Pulling back, Thor held Steve at arm’s left, big hands resting on the younger man’s shoulders. “This man told me that Coulson is alive? And that our Hawk is injured? I do not understand.” 

Sighing Steve looked down, “It’s bad Thor. Really bad. Coulson...Him and Fury, they lied to us. Tony found a project. Something that was designed for us. T.A.H.I.T.I, it’s called.”

“We don’t know exactly what it was. But Coulson was declared dead. He did die.” Tugging lightly on Thor’s wrist, Steve lead him to the couch, where they settled side by side, leaving Brock standing unsure if he should butt in. Winter was already scrambling back onto the couch, plastering himself to Steve’s back, eyes locked on Thor, a knife in his hand. 

“It was buried. Deep. Level 10 files. Jarvis is working on them but it’s going to take awhile. We only know they brought him back. Using some serum. GH. 325.” Tony picked up his StarkPad. “We’ll get more eventually. Jarvis is the best. There is no way S.H.I.E.L.D has something better then him.”

“Is the Son of Coul being held hostage? Are we to rescue him?” Thor accepted the tablet Tony thrust under his nose, frowning as he read the scant amount of information they had managed to collect over the past four days. 

“Coulson’s in medical probably getting his face plastered back together. Remind me never to piss off Barton.”

Thor looked baffled, “I do not...”

“Coulson has been alive for two years. He’s apparently been running around with a new team and he thought Clint was in the wrong for being pissed. Clint, he sorta went nuts. Brock and I are both fired I think. Brock punched Fury and I hit Fury with my shield.” Steve caught Winter’s wrist, somehow surviving as he neatly twisted the knife out of the metal fingers. “No. Thor’s a friend, we don’t stab him.” 

Winter huffed, the noise muffled by his mask. Brock threw him a warning glare, daring him to speak. They were on thin enough ice as it was, Romanoff was clearly suspicious, they didn’t need Winter making Steve suspicious. 

“Clint’s in the vents. He’s upset and hurt and refuses to come out. We thought if you showed up, he’d think it was an Avengers situation and come out."

 

-_______________-

That was how they found themselves gathered under an air vent each of them suited up. Winter was glaring moodily at Brock, sulking in his tactical gear after four days of Brock’s stolen pajama bottoms and Steve’s shirts. 

Steve was nearly as annoyed, staring down Stark as the faceplate slid back so the Captain could see his smirk. “Oh it's not that bad.”

“I think my ears are bleeding.” Steve shouted over the alarm, wincing as the lyrics “Put on your war paint” screeched through the Tower, accompanied by flashing lights, illuminating the walls with the Avenger ‘A’ for their deaf archer. 

“It's not my fault you vetoed Black Sabbath!”

“They wrote a song about you! That’s bias! And shows questionable taste. I couldn’t even understand the lyrics!”

Tony’s dramatic gasp was somehow intelligible over the music. Brock scanned for speakers, praying he could shoot them out because as much as he loved this song, he was going to need to scrub his ears out after this. 

Natasha flicked Tony’s unarmored ear. “Enough boys. And Steve, that song is nearly as old as you. It's not about Stark.”

“You are about forty years off on the age of that song Widow.” Tony snarked, “Besides. I could have payed Ozzy to scream ‘Avengers Assemble’...think we could get him to bite another bat’s head off? You know paint it up to look like...totally not Loki. Stop staring at me Point Break.” Tony took a timid step back under Thor’s glower, tugging Bruce around to act as a very ungreen shield. 

“Are you sure you can’t Hulk out? Clint likes perching on the Other Guy. He might help.”

“No Tony. We’ve discussed this. The Green Guy isn’t a puppy. You can’t expect him not to maul you.” Bruce pried armored fingers off his hoodie with a world weary sigh, nudging Tony towards Steve. 

Winter was the first to notice the slight change, tugging on his kevlar vest like an impatient toddler. When Brock wasn’t quick enough to satisfy the sniper, metal fingers enclosed around his wrist, hauling him forward.. His grip was gentle but Brock would rock the imprint of metal fingers for days. Something to remember him by, because the Soldier was very close to meeting another train, aiming his gun upwards and emptying his clip into the ceiling. 

A yelp that could only belong to Clint sounded above them, Winter casually exchanging his Glock for a Beretta and aiming once more before Brock snarled words he’d never dare utter. 

“Longing. Rusted. Seventeen.” The Russian tumbled from his lips, only the three words, but Winter froze as if he’d been riddled with bullets, teeth widening in a snarl. Brock couldn’t even imagine the damage he’d just done to their bond, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care as Clint fell more then jumped from the vent just in front of him. He managed to stumble forward, becoming a human mattress as Clint landed heavily on top of him, but it was worth it. Clint tried to bolt, eyes wide, stinking of whiskey and infection, but Brock had the weight advantage, more than happy to flip them so the archer couldn’t escape. 

Clint went limp in his arms after only a minute, teeth sinking painfully into the tendon of his neck. Brock’s body was constantly a canvas for Clint’s biting fetish, so it was nothing to haul them both to their feet, Thor’s big paws reaching out to help. 

Winter was lurking in the back, eyes screaming of rebellion but fuck it if Brock didn’t give a shit what the Asset did. Let him take off, Brock was dead anyway. His path was set, entwined with the trembling man in his arms, until an arrow pierced his heart. 

Natasha cuffed Clint gently, eyes judgemental as the Avengers crowded close, each seeming desperate to reassure themselves that their sniper was safe 

“I’m okay guys. Just needed some time to think.”

“And drink my whiskey. How come when I disappear and get drunk, I’ve got issues, but when Barton does...” Tony squealed, thrashing as Thor tossed him, suit and all, over his shoulder, heading for the door as if he wasn’t weighed down by six hundred pounds of man and metal. 

“Come along. Leave Clint to the care of his lover. We can not help on these matters.”

“Oh and you know that how blondie?” Tony hung upside down, yelping when Thor lazily patted the back end of his suit. 

“This is my area of expertise. I am the God of Fertility.” Thor’s smirk bordered on a leer. 

Steve blinked at them for a long second, ears reddening as comprehension dawned on his face. “Oh....you..umm...Winter and I....uhhh...” Steve stammered, catching Winter’s wrist. 

“Hey Cap! Winter wouldn’t mind popping that cherry. Can’t have you not knowing exactly what we’re doing!” Brock called after the very pink Captain, who fled, physically dragging Winter after him. 

Natasha threw Clint a sharp look, turning around and stalking from the room, leaving them alone with Banner. 

Bruce slunk closer, head low shoulders hunched, gathering Clint’s hands in his own, even as Brock tightened his hold on the archer. Clint rolled his eyes at the ceiling. 

“These burns are infected. Two broken fingers at least, I’d need an X-ray to be sure. His knuckles are broken. Really Clint, I’m disappointed, I thought you knew how to throw a punch better than this. I expect to be treating these injuries on Tony, not you.” Bruce shook his head. “You shouldn’t have hid Clint. I could have fixed these so much easier right after they occurred. Now? They are already starting to heal.” Bruce gently traced the ring finger of Clint’s right hand, the bone jutting at a sharp angle. Brock’s stomach twisted when he realized the glint he could see through mangled flesh was bone. “You are going to be lucky if all I have to do is rebreak your fingers to set them and not surgery. What is S.H.I.E.L.D giving its agents, you all heal unnaturally fast? I had to stitch your boyfriend back together after Fury stabbed him and it’s already mostly healed. Steve swears to me that Rumlow broke his wrist, but when I X-rayed him I could only find a fracture that was a month old at least.” 

“Ehh probably a knockoff of Erskine's formula in the water supply.” Clint raised an eyebrow at Brock’s wrist, wrapped only in an ace bandage, the silent accusation holding no weight after the state of Clint’s hands. 

“That...honestly wouldn’t surprise me.” Bruce tsked, “Come on. You are going to medical.”

“Aww come on Banner. Fury didn’t even make me go to medical when I had maggots in a leg wound. This is nothing. I can set the bones myself. Promise.” 

Bruce simply raised his eyebrows. “Agent Rumlow will carry you if you refuse. Or do I need to call Natasha?”

“Low blow Banner.” Clint shrugged. “I’m fine. I don’t see what the big deal is. I’ve had worse.”

Brock’s snort only got his foot stomped on. “How about your bow?”

Clint spun in his arms, eyes narrowed. “What. Did. You. Do.”

“I did nothing. See I’m not that fond of my hand and I actually like breathing. Natasha hid all your bows and she told Stark she’d castrate him if he built you a new one. So you can either go to medical and they’ll be returned. Or you can run off and refuse to let us treat you and Nat’s tossing them in the Hudson.”  Brock grinned sheepishly under Clint’s glare,  “Aww come on babe, don’t give me that look.”

The glare didn’t stop, nor did the silent treatment. Not while Clint was subjected to X-rays, his wounds being flushed and bandaged, and his shattered right hand being forced into a purple cast. Bruce threatening to staple the doctor’s note banning him from his bow for six weeks to his forehead. 

But finally Brock was allowed to lead Clint back towards the floor in the tower done up in shades of purple. Any other day he’d always considered it their shared room, but now everything seemed uncertain. 

The fight seemed to have left the archer, head down shoulders hunched, he opened the door to his apartment, leaving Brock hovering awkwardly outside, as Clint knelt down to greet his exuberant dog. 

“Get your ass in here Rumlow.” Clint called, fending off Lucky with his knee, “I just want to sleep and you’re better than a heating pad.”

“Babe, I love you, but you stink and contrary to proper belief I do have some standards, and climbing into bed with you right now is pushing them.” Brock pointed out, kicking the door shut as he entered. 

“Well dipshit, kinda can’t shower since you dragged me to Banner. I was perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, if you consider burns, broken bones, dislocated knuckles, and infection minor.” Creeping close, Brock dared to pull Clint into his arms, nose wrinkling as he thought twice about a kiss. “You smell like stale whiskey and vomit. Come on, I’ll help you shower. Or at least brush your teeth.”

Clint was quiet as he trailed behind Brock to the bathroom, not a single remark leaving his lips as he watches his boyfriend fuss with the tub, adding lavender bubble bath. As the hot water rushed into the tub that was big enough to fit the entire team if they ever got desperate enough to have an orgy.

The archer’s eyes were fixed on a point over Brock’s shoulder, only occasionally blinking as Brock helped him out of his tactical gear. His archery guards were set on the counter, his vest unzipped, arms gently eased through the holes. Clint’s pants and boots took a little more finesse but Brock had the strength to haul his boyfriend onto the counter to make everything easier. The sharp gaze the man was infamous had been replaced by a dull stare, seeming unaware of his boyfriend stripping him. Or Brock’s clothes joining Clint’s on the floor, carrying his boyfriend to the tub. Clint was a ragdoll in his arms, not even bothering to argue as Brock settled him in his lap, carefully arranging Clint’s hands to shield them from the water. 

Gentle hands scrubbed Clint’s blood and grime covered skin until it was clean and pink, his sandy hair smelling of the strawberry shampoo Natasha favored.  Halfway through washing his body, Clint decided to aid him, moving his limbs in tiny gestures. It wasn’t much, but it soothed the worry away that his archer wasn’t coming back to him. 

Satisfied that Clint was as clean as he was going to get, Brock did his best to wash himself, rewarding Clint with gentle pecks to his collarbone when Clint tried to help, even if he had to swat his heavily bandaged hands away. 

The gunmetal blue eyes he loved weren’t quite as bright and lively as they should be, but minute by minute Clint seemed to creep farther out of his own brain. 

Over an hour passed of them just floating in the tub together, Jarvis quietly opening the drains and refreshing the tub with hot water before the temperature could drop. Brock’s fingers were wrinkled, but the lone attempt he’d made to leave the warm bathwater had resulted in Clint’ whining, so he contented himself with tracing his lips over every scar that littered his boyfriend’s back. 

“Agent Barton. Agent Rumlow, Prince Thor has left a tray of food on your bed and has taken Pizza Dog for the night. He wishes you well on your coupling.” The judgement in Jarvis’s voice was clear. 

Clint stirred in his arms. “Food? Kinda hungry”

“Baby, you are eating if I have to play ‘here comes the arrow’?”

“Why would I swallow an arrow?” Clint tilted his head to the side, nose scrunching in a familiar way. “Why would you want your kid to open his mouth for a plane or a train either? That makes no sense. When we have kids, we aren’t doing that with them.”

“Oh we’re reproducing now? Damn I gotta figure out how to baby proof Romanoff and Winter.” Brock hummed against Clint’s hair, enjoying the clean scent. 

They stayed like that for a few more minutes, before a silent agreement had them both standing, Clint’s legs unsteady, but he managed to get out of the tub on his own power. The start of the independent spirit returning, as Clint wrapped himself in a towel, padding into the kitchen and managing to drip water everywhere for Brock to mop up. Or throw a few towels over and hope they disappeared before morning. Slipping on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt he'd flinched from Steve, Brock followed him out. 

He found Clint curled up on the bed, a paper plate with a slice of pizza in his casted hand, neatly tilting the plate so a bit of pizza would hang over the edge for him to bite off, keeping his cast and bandages clean of pizza grease. 

Shaking his head at the sight, Brock tore into his own slices, knowing he had to eat quick because whatever food he chose for himself, would always taste far better to Clint. He hadn’t even finished his first slice before Clint snagged it from his hand, wolfing down the stuffed crust. 

“Hey! That’s the best part.” Brock’s whine was cut off as Clint clambered into his lap, a predatory smile turning up the archer’s lips. 

“Guess I should make it up to you then.” Clint’s kiss tasted of pizza and whiskey, a combination that had Brock wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah, by brushing your teeth. Oh gross.” Brock pulled a face as Clint huffed in his face, garlic, booze, and an undercurrent of vomit. “Babe I’ve fucked you covered in blood and brain matter, but I draw my line at this.”

Clint slid from his lap, stomping towards the bathroom with none of his usual grace, but since he didn't fall on his face, Brock was content to let him stumble his way there under his own power, while he quickly finished off the pizza. Standing, he deposited the empty pizza box and the dirty plates in the trash, snorting at the vial lying on the bed. Like he was letting alien lube anywhere near his dick or Clint. Tossing it under the bed, he went in search of his boyfriend, finding Clint squinting at the mirror, toothpaste smeared around his mouth. 

“Babe?” Wrapping his arms around Clint’s waist, Brock pressed a kiss to the back of Clint’s neck. “You okay?”

“Fine. Just thinking too much.” Turning in his arms, Clint stretched up, mindful of his bandaged hands as he rested them on his shoulders. “Help me not think?”

“You sure? Gonna be hard for you to boss me around without your hands.” 

Clint jumped, wrapping his legs around Brock’s waist, leaving the Hydra agent scrambling to keep him from falling. Clint’s wry smile was punctured by a sharp nip to Brock’s stubble covered chin. “Like I need my hands to order you around Rumlow. I outrank you.”

“Pretty sure you attacking Jackass and me fighting Fury got us fired babe. “

Humming Clint pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “Then your a civi and I’m an Avengers. So I still outrank you.”  The mischievous grin wasn’t quite right, Brock hesitating as Clint pawed at his shirt with bandaged hands. “Come on. Get naked.”

“Babe you still stink of whiskey. On a scale of one to ten how sober are you?”

“About as sober as Cap. Probably. He hasn’t gotten into Thor’s booze again right? He’s a weepy drunk.”

“Yeah, that totally answered my question.” Brock hefted Cint hire into his arms. “Bed. Then if you’re up to it, I’ll fuck you in the morning.”

“I dunno. Might see your face in the light of day and flee.” Clint snarked, twisting around to peer at his watch.  “It's not even dusk yet. We can totally have sex. Now gimme.”

“And I’m thrilled to give it to you, when I’m sure you're sober and you're not using my dick to not think of your ex husband.”

Clint’s eyes dropped to his crotch. “Would it help if I said you are so much bigger than him?”

“Babe, a hedgehog has a bigger dick then Coulson.”  Brock walked them towards the bed, depositing Clint in a sprawl of limbs. “Come on. You need to rest.’

“No, what I need is to get fucked. But if you don’t want me...I understand.” The smile melted from Clint’s face, the archer rolling to hide his face in a pillow, body the picture of patheticness. 

“Oh that’s cheating.” Brock’s clambered onto the bed, running a hand down Clint’s naked flank because someone hadn’t bothered with clothes after their bath. Clint peeked out at him, lower lip wobbling, before he buried himself back into the pillows. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Come here.” Patting his lap, it was soon full of grinning archer, peppering his face with kisses. The threat of tears vanished as Clint whined moodily at Brock’s shirt. 

“Naked. Now.” Clint hissed as he tried to grasp the shirt with broken fingers, all but growling when Brock swatted his hands away. Catching Clint’s wrist in one of his own hands, Brock flipped them, lying the younger man out beneath him, hands pressed over his head. 

“Uh uh. We aren’t doing this unless your hands stay put. Don’t pout at me, they move and I stop. Deal?”

“You stop and I’ll ‘accidentally’ knee you in the balls.” Clint snarled, wiggling impatiently as Brock raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the hands that had already moved. 

A silent staring match commenced, before Clint stuck his tongue out, obediently putting his hands over his head with a childish pout. 

“Why do I put up with you again?” Clint questioned, tilting his head to the side as Brock decided to fuck the romance and attempt to wiggle out of his shirt, slightly smug that even Rogers’s shirts were tight on his ample shoulders. Clint snickering as his head got caught momentarily, before he managed to free himself. 

“The romance. The strip tease. I’m blown away.” The archer yipped, kneeing Brock sharply in the stomach, twisting away from the fingers dancing down his sides. The Hydra agent grinned manically, his own laughter joining Clint’s breathless giggles, pinning Clint to the bed with his leg.

“Okay...I give! I give! Total romantic. Romeo levels.”  Panting for breath as Brock ceased his attack on his ticklish sides, the archer poked his tongue out, head lolling on the bed. “Are you gonna put your dick in me anytime soon or should I go flirt with Thor?” 

Red momentarily took over the older man’s vision, at what he knew was an idle threat. Growling in warning, he nipped at Clint’s collarbone, feeling the archer smirk against his temple. 

“Awww you don’t wanna think about that? Wonder what tricks he’s learned. God of Fertility. Pretty sure they wouldn’t give that title to a guy that sucked in the...” The string of words was cut off as Brock attacked his mouth, mostly heat and harsh breathing, but Clint’s legs came up to wrap around his hips, vainly trying to shove down his sweatpants without moving his hands. 

Teeth clinking together, Brock patted the bed blindly, searching for the tube he knew they always kept on the bedside table. Clint’s hands lifted an inch from the bed, before settling, hips rising to grind into Brock’s crotch, where his dick was starting to take notice. 

Pulling away from Clint’s lips, Brock trailed a line of open mouth kisses down the delicate skin of the offered neck. Beneath him Clint bucked his hips up, legs gripping tighter. 

“Come on Brock! Fuck me!”

“Shhh babe.” Brock pinned Clint’s hips with one hand, running soothing fingers through Clint’s hair. “Not gonna be rough with you sweetheart.” Mouthing at a dusky nipple, Brock ignored the sharp whine from his boyfriend. 

“What if I want rough?” Clint shifted, looking to the side, ignoring Brock’s fingers tilting his chin up. “I’ve been sitting in the vents thinking and I don’t wanna do that anymore Brock. I... I need a distraction and your dick usually can do that for fifteen seconds.”

Ignoring the dig he knew was meant to rile him, Brock shifted them around, hauling Clint’s naked body into his lap, bare skin brushing, only the rumbled fabric of his sweatpants separating them. 

Pulling Clint’s head down for a sharp, biting kiss, his hands roamed the bare skin, ignoring the growls and attempts to tug his sweatpants off. 

Breaking the kiss, Brock rested their foreheads together, “Rough isn’t gonna help you baby. But I can.” Grasping Clint’s hands and making sure they were safely resting on his shoulders, he let his own hands start to roam, mouth finding the junction of Clint’s shoulder, lips searching out the perfect spot.

The archer bared his neck, a pleased hum rumbling in his exposed throat as Brock sucked a dark mark on the thin skin, worrying at it with his teeth. 

“Hickeys? What are we twelve?” Clint’s snark turned into a bitten off whine, Brock’s hand pinching lightly at the dusky nipples, calluses catching on the delicate nubs, nipping at old scars that dotted Clint’s broad shoulders. 

Kissing his way down Clint’s body, careful to find each and every scar, to soothe away the remembered pain with gentle kisses, rebranding them as his own with gentle little nips, Brock was quite content to spend hours on his self-appointed task. But someone had other ideas, if the bottle of lube colliding with his forehead had anything to say about it, somehow accomplishing that with both hands still digging into Brock’s shoulders. 

Big blue eyes blinked innocently at him, face practically oozing angelicness. Stubbornly ignoring Clint’s impatience, Brock resumed his kisses, running his hands up and down Clint’s back. 

Clint’s cock was half hard against his stomach, even as he wiggled more, trying to steer Brock’s questing fingers farther down, the earlier threat keeping his hands still. 

“If I blow you will you sit still?” Brock finally asked, eying a line of bruises along Clint’s ribs that someone was trying to keep away from his lips. Clint flopping backwards, legs spreading in a clear invitation was his answer. 

Rolling his eyes, Brock crawled over his boyfriend, mindful of the brises Clint had somehow sustained and they were going to have words about that later. Clint’s legs fell open, letting him settle between them, lazy kisses peppering Clint’s body as Brock trailed his way down, Clint’s hardened cock grinding into his thigh.  

“Do you want my mouth or are you planning on humping against my leg like Lucky before Nat chopped off his balls?”

“Are you trying to kill my boner?” Clint panted against his shoulder, hips jerking up with a whine, Brock sucking lazily on his thigh. 

The older agent’s eyebrow rose. “Doesn’t seem to be having any trouble if you ask me.” Tracing the vein with his tongue, Brock smirked as Clint’s snark turned into a breathless whimper.

Checking on Clint’s hands one more time, Brock lowered his mouth, lapping delicately at the head, gripping Clint gently in a calloused hand. Offering his free hand to the archer, Clint eagerly slipped the fingers into his mouth,  suckling softly on the offered fingers, as  the older man slowly lathering Clint’s cock with his own saliva, the lube forgotten at his hip. Engulfing the head in his mouth, he hollowed his cheeks, tongue circling Clint’s slit with perfect persion, free hand cupping his balls. 

Clint pushed his hips up eagerly, head thrown back, letting Brock’s now slick fingers slide from his mouth, leaving a trail of drool on his lips. Taking his now wet fingers, he rubbed his index finger over Clint’s hole, not entering him, but enough pressure to trigger all those sensitive little nerves. 

“Fuck! Stop teasing. Fingers now.” Clint’s pants were loud in the quiet of their room, mewling softly when Brock let just the barest hint of teeth scrape against his cock, pulling off with a wet pop to soothe the area with gentle laps of his tongue. 

“Do you want me baby?” He purred, the soft rasp of his voice blowing hot air on Clint’s saliva coated cock. 

“Picked you didn’t I?” Clint voice was strangled and hoarse, crying out softly as a spit slick finger was worked into his ass up until the first knuckle, legs spreading to welcome the burning stretch. “Lube you dick!”

“Oh I’m sorry. I thought you wanted it rough? You do realize I’m not your personal chew toy right?” Brock hissed, poking at the imprint of teeth sunk deep into his shoulder. “God I’m so abused in this relationship.”

Poking his tongue out, Clint wiggled his hips, pushing down farther on Brock’s finger with a satisfied purr. “Yeah, yeah. Do I have to do all the work or are you planning on participating, because I have a very nice dildo Tony gave me for my birthday...Oh and I have the biting fetish.”

“Do. Not. Mention. Stark.” Brock snarled, sucking harshly on the already bruising mark he’d left on Clint’s inner thigh. “Mine.”

“Prove it then.” The challenge was soft, Clint’s hands lifting from the pillow and reaching out for him. His eyes were gentle, but holding a darkness that had Brock slowly easing his finger out, before crawling into Clint’s arms for a slow kiss that was more the drag of lips than any real heat. 

“I love you.” Clint whispered against his lips, Brock humming softly in agreement as he found the tube of lube, all without breaking apart from Clint. 

Shifting their positions once more, he returned Clint to his lap, helping the smaller man to steady himself without the use of his hands.  He took a long moment to just look at the gorgeous man in his lap. What was that sculpture Rogers had dragged them to see when they were busting a terrorist in Italy? David? Or was it some Greek thing? Either way the man in his arms was far more sexy that that hunk of granite. He’d been too busy staring at Clint’s ass, squeezed into jeans that were practically painted on, to listen to the tour. But he did know that statue didn’t have arms like his archer. 

Licking the salt from Clint’s bicep, Brock teased the milky skin of Clint’s inner elbow, letting his scruff rub against it until Clint giggled in his arms, pushing at his head until he returned it to his neck, marking every inch of Clint’s neck with playful nips, hands nimbly popping open the tube of lube, warming it in his hands so his own skin got the bite of cold.

Clint perked up at the sound, panting softly as he spread his legs farther, exposing himself to his lover. 

“That’s my good boy.” Brock purred, letting Clint lean in for a kiss, that ended with a sharp yelp, his own tongue tracing the deep imprint of teeth left behind on his lower lips, just shy of drawing blood. 

“Call me a good boy again and it will be a body part you're a little more fond of next time.” Clint snarled, lifting himself up. “Now fingers before I really decide to get that dildo.”

For a half a second Brock was tempted to repeat the praise, his dick appreciating the sight of a riled up Barton, but a darkness had come over Clint’s face and slowly the reasoning dawned on him. 

“Did he...” Brock waved his hands in a way that he hoped said ‘Coulson’, not caring when extra lube splattered his chest. Clint looked away sharply and that was all the answer he needed. 

“I’m sorry baby.” Slipping his hand between Clint’s leg, he wrapped his hand around Clint’s length, giving it a few pulls to fix the softness his words had brought. His archer moaned quietly, biting down on his own lip to muffle his noises as Brock’s fingers danced backwards, teasingly brushing Clint’s balls, before finding his puckered entrance once more. 

“Not gonna break you know.” Clint muttered, burying his face in the hollow of his shoulder, hair tickling Brock’s chin. 

“Hey baby, wanna give me some colors here? Freaking me out a bit.” 

“M’fine. Don’t stop.”

“Normally you’re bossing me around, not hiding your face. What’s wrong baby? Can’t make it better if you don’t tell me.” Rubbing the pad of his finger slowly against that soft ring of velvet, Brock waited patiently, listening to Clint’s breath stutter, trying to push down on his finger, but he pulled back enough he couldn’t.

“I hate you.” Mumbled against his bare skin, Clint’s words were distorted. Kneading his free hand into the small of Clint’s back, feeling the dimples of his hip bones and the slightly different feel of one of Clint’s tattoos, this one his Natasha issued tramp stamp, Brock was content to wait until the man in his arms relaxed. 

Finally, just when his wrist was starting to ache, Clint lifted his head, looking up at his lover with the threat of tears glistening in his eyes.

“I...I just...” Clint whined, looking down at his bandaged hands, in a way that years of experience told him that Clint wanted to retreat to the safety of ALS, instead of forcing the words out. 

“I gotcha sweetheart. And trust me, there is nothing you can say right now, that would make me leave you if you didn’t want me gone. We both have our fuck ups, I knew that going in so did you. So tell me what’s wrong so I can try to make it a little less shitty.”

“Just don’t wanna think about him when you’re inside me. My head...seeing him. It’s like I can’t stop seeing him.” Clint took a shuddery breath. “I don’t...”

“Want me to get the wrong idea? Babe, you were married to him. Just...try not to scream his name ok? I mean come on, no way that old man was better in bed than me. Have you see my cock? Pretty sure they should be making statues of it, not that weird guy that doesn’t even have sexy arms.” Brock knew he was rambling, one of the few habits from his childhood that liked to pop up, but he couldn’t find it in him to care when Clint smiled at him, yanking his head down for a kiss, and for the first time since they’d hauled Clint out of that airvent, he felt like he was kissing his archer. 

Clint’s fingers were tangled in his hair, the hard edge of his cast digging into his skull, Brock should be scolding him for that, but Clint was grinding against his cock, panting into his mouth, tongue doing things that would make Cap faint. 

Relaxing above him, Clint’s entrance opened up to his finger perfectly, encasing the digit in delicious heat with a throaty moan. Clint pushed down eagerly, tugging roughly on his hair as the older man worked him open, letting him feel the stretch as he added another finger, twisting his wrist to find that place inside his lover that gave him so much pleasure. Clint’s hips jerked sharply, crying out against his lips, any words lost in the rough clasp of teeth and nails as Clint left a line of angry scratches down his shoulders, marking him as surely as he’d marked Clint's neck with his love bites.  Clint froze against him, looking down on the marks he’d left with wide eyes. 

“Easy now.” Brock soothed, gentling Clint with his free hand, cupping the back of his neck with strong fingers “It's fine. I like ‘em. Gotta make sure Stark gets the message I’m off limits. Shh I gotcha. Just relax.” 

“Am relaxed. You're just fucking slow.” Clint traced the scratches with a finger that wasn’t bandaged, before replacing his hands on Brock’s shoulders, like he hadn’t broken their one rule for tonight. 

Pressing his fingers against the little nub was far from the best retaliation he’d ever come up with, but it had Clint wiggling on his fingers, breathlessly gasping his name, cock leaving a heavy trail of pre-cum against his abs as Clint tried to grind against him, stopped by the grounding weight of Brock’s hand. Clint mewed softly, rolling back on his fingers. 

Gone were the frantic kisses of their relationship. Clint’s mouth was soft, lacking his usual biting teeth and mutual snarky remarks. 

Clint’s body accepted his third finger with only a soft hum, not breaking their kiss as he let Clint gently rock against his fingers, squeezing his neck in time with the rolls of Clint’s hips. 

“Want you.” Clint breathed, voice rough but this time Brock was sure it was with arousal, not suppressed emotion. 

Sliding his fingers free of Clint’s heat, lips soothing Clint’s distraught whine at being left empty. 

“I know. I know. You don’t like that. Come on baby, work with me a bit.” Untangling Clint’s octopus level of limbs from his hips, was far from easy, but he somehow managed it, stroking a hand down Clint’s flank like he was soothing Winter fresh out of the freezer. 

Tugging Clint’s hands back up above his head, he kissed his precious archer’s nose, smiling at him. “Try to keep these out of the way. Unless you wanna explain to Banner who you got cum and lube on your cast.” 

Clint nodded, worrying his lower lip with his teeth, Brock’s thumb rubbing absent circles on his thigh as he ducked down to reclaim the lube. The hard edge of a cast clipped his ear, just hard enough to burn, though by the time Brock’s eyes flickered back up, the arm in question was in the exact same spot he’d put it, the overgrown child it was attached looking looking angelic. 

Shaking his head, rolled onto his knees, slickening his cock with lazy twist of his wrist, Clint slowly licking his lips, hips already raised in the air. 

“Ready?” He asked one final time, crawling atop the Avenger, holding the base of his cock firmly in one hand, the other braced alongside Clint’s head. 

Instead of an answer, Clint caught him with his legs, tugging him close, his cock brushing the open slickness of Clint’s ass. 

Groaning, he eased himself inside, watching Clint’s head toss back, baring the pale line of his throat, a low belly deep whine leaving his bitten lips. 

Fully sheathed, Brock paused, mindful of his weight and Clint’s bruised ribs, mouthing at the marks left by his teeth, letting Clint adjust. 

“Move.” Clint’s hands left the bed half an inch, Brock growling a warning, stubbornly keeping his hips still, no matter how much he wanted to thrust forward, until Clint’s arms were back on the pillow. Satisfied, he pulled back, leaving just the tip inside, Clint’s legs like vices around his hips, dragging him forward. Rolling his hips into the smaller man carefully, Brock was mindful of his thrust, always wary of his own strength when Clint was a boneless sprawl of limbs beneath him. 

Clint promptly kicked him. “Don’t strain yourself. I’ll just get myself off.”

“Demanding much?” Brock huffed, shifting to support his weight on one hand, grabbing for Clint’s cock with the other.

“You’d get confused if I didn’t.” The tiny ring of blue around Clint’s blew pupils all but disappeared, pants turning to a squeak when Brock found the right angle, his cock brushing against that bundle of nerves. 

“There you go. See? Finally getting decent in bed.” Clint grinned up at him, yipping softly when Brock slammed into him, letting just a bit of his true strength show. Clint whined, hips jerking into his fist. 

Clint’s head lifted off the bed, calming when Brock pulled him into another kiss, rolling his hips in time to the slick slide of his hand over Clint’s cock. Sweat rolled down his back, stinging the scratches, Clint’s breath hot against his neck, the archer gasping his name as he tugged the archer closer to the edge, biting down on his lip to hold back his own release. Clint fluttered around him, squeezing down more on his length, tossing his head to the side. 

“Come on baby. I gotcha. I’m not going anywhere.” Brock promised, twisting his wrist, thumbing at Clint’s slit, claiming his lips with a biting kiss. 

The archer clamped down around him, spilling over Brock’s hands with a shuddery cry.  Brock managed three more thrust before he followed his boyfriend over the edge, white taking over his vision. 

Panting against Clint’s mouth, he grunted as he slowly eased himself out of Clint’s slack body, pulling a face at the mess on his hand and belly. Clint blinked at him slowly, eyes half-lidded as he stretched like a pleased cat. 

“I want it noted you were screaming my name.”

“Babe, if you consider that screaming I might not be the only one in this relationship with hearing problems.” Clint yawned, smiling at him sleepily. 

Grunting, Brock found his discarded shirt, doing his best to clean them both up. He wondered if Steve would want his shirt back now.

The sheets were beyond help, but it wasn’t like they both hadn’t slept in worse, Brock taking his usual spot behind Clint, tugging the blankets over them as Clint tucked himself close. 

“I love you.” Brock whispered, Clint hummed in agreement, eyes already closed. Brock kept still, pressing the occasional kiss to Clint’s bare shoulders, his hand tracing random shapes on Clint’s hip. 

The younger man’s breathing was slow and deep, face slack with sleep when Brock carefully eased his way out of the bed with one final kiss to Clint’s forehead, easing the hearing aids out of Clint’s ears as he did. 

“Jarvis?” He breathed, despite the fact he knew Clint couldn’t hear them. 

“Yes, Agent Rumlow?” The British voice held a hint of judgment as Brock jumped into the shower, quickly rinsing the evidence of his and Clint’s lovemaking from his skin. 

“If Clint wakes up, get Romanoff. I’ve....I’ve got to do something and it might not end well....If I don’t come back. Tell him that I love him and I’d do it all again if it meant I got to have him. 

“Sir, if you are in danger, I can inform the Avengers.” The judgement turned to worry, but Brock shook his head. 

“No. This is something I have to do alone. Well...with just Winter.” Satisfied he was clean enough, he dressed swiftly in his tactical gear, hesitating a moment before snagging one of Clint’s arrows, tucking it inside his vest as some kind of deadly good luck charm. 

He lingered beside Clint for a long minute, pressing his lips over and over to Clint’s forehead, before finally tearing himself away, knowing if he didn’t do it now, he’d never find the strength. 

Clint was never going to hide in the air vents wondering if he ever actually loved him. He wasn’t going to cry in the arms of some other man, wondering if it had all been a lie. He was never going to be the reason Clint beat himself bloody.

 

Easing the door shut behind him, he silently took the elevator to the shared floor, not even surprised to find a movie playing softly in the darkened room.

Winter was curled up on the couch, Steve dozing against his side, Tony’s head pillowed in his lap. His eyes narrowed at the sight of his handler. 

“Yeah, I know I’m a dick, but you do not fucking go for Clint. I don’t give a shit if you shoot everyone else, but he’s mine and you don’t touch. Now how about you pry those two off of you and we go for a little walk?”

Winter looked down at Tony, fingers wrapped loosely around the metal of his arm, then at Steve who was drooling a wet spot on the Soldier’s chest. “No.”

“No? I’m your fucking handler. You listen to me.”

Winter sniffed, eyes going back to watching a T-Rex use people for chew toys.

Brock hesitated, looking at the ceiling and the two sleeping Avengers. “How would you like to destroy the Chair?”

That gave him the Soldier’s full attention, Winter’s eyes glimmering with hope, but also suspicion. 

“Let’s go for a walk big guy.” Brock walked back towards the elevator, unsurprised when Winter carefully settled Tony and Steve back on the couch, pillows replacing his body. 

 

They didn’t speak until they were in the Tower’s garage, Clint’s Challenger rumbling to life around them. 

 

 

“....Steve. Is...Is he mine? Like Clint is yours?” Winter asked, eyes locked ahead as the Tower lights faded behind them. His voice wasn’t much more than a croak, yet it somehow seemed fitting the first word out of his mouth would be Rogers name. 

“I dunno buddy. It’s not like they’d put that in the history books. Why do you think he’s yours?” 

He’d never had it confirmed that the man beside him was James Buchanan Barnes, but who else could he be? 

“I...The Chair? We are destroying it?”

“It’s either the Chair or my relationship with Clint.”

The Asset nodded, “Sir? Was he a previous mission? The Captain. Protection detail?”

“No. He wasn’t.” Brock wondered if he should tell the man beside him more, but no. That wasn’t his place. If he was truly Bucky Barnes, Steve could handle him. 

He saw the conditioning to remain obedient warring with the Asset’s natural curiosity. Miles passed beneath the Challengers’ tires before he finally spoke again. “I...I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You won’t. You’re not the only Asset Hydra has. They have a mutant girl being held in Sokovia. Jayde has been trying to get you traded for her for the past six months. I know Pierce wanted her on loan to our base, she does some...mind stuff...way above my paygrade and they thought it would make you more compliant. So we wouldn’t need the triggers.” 

Winter tensed at the mention of the words he detested, but Brock simply patted his leg. “Easy Big Guy. Not gonna have her do anything like that. I meant...maybe she could get the words scrubbed out of your brain.” 

“No more triggers?” Winter’s voice was so tiny, sounding like it belonged on a child, not the Fist of Hydra. 

“No more Chair. No more triggers. No more Cryofreeze.” Brock promised, half to himself and half to the tortured man sitting beside him. “I’m your handler. Do you know what that means Winter?”

“The Handler is the superior officer on all field missions, only seconded by the Director himself.” Winter recited, voice robotic. 

“No. Well sorta. It does mean you're supposed to listen to me. But it's more than that Winter. I’m supposed to look out for you .Your well-being is supposed to be my priority.”

“You do sir.” Winter looked down at his hands. “You do not employ standard punishment. I do not remember previous handlers...but..you have allowed me to share your substance. You do not feel the need to test my healing factor yourself. I do not have to worry if the commands you give will shatter my protocols.”

‘That’s part of being a decent human being Winter.”

“Jones says...”

“If I wanted to hear what my second had to think I’d tell her where I was. Jayde is a damn good agent and if you tell her I said that, I will tell Natasha you stole her eyeliner, but she’s a shitty person. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she thought of you as a person. Me? My sense of morals are a bit more grey but I’m not evil. I’m not Zola or Pierce.”  Running a hand through his hair, Brock frowned at the lack of his usual hair gel. Great, he was going to probably die and look shitty doing it. Clint was going to have to sob over his body and it wasn’t even going to look its best.

“But...I’m not a person. I am a weapon.” Winter’s whisper was heart wrenching, sounding far too tiny to come out of the hulking man beside him. 

“We’re all weapons Winter. Of some cause. I’m Hydra’s weapon same as you. The Avengers? They are Fury’s. But just because you’re are a weapon doesn’t mean you aren’t a person too.” Brock scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing he had time to cuddle up to Clint and enjoy a nap but this had to be done. 

“A gun doesn’t get to choose how it's being used. Or a knife. Us? We got that choice. Do you wanna be Hydra’s bitch or do you want to stand with Captain America? ‘Cause I don’t give a fuck either way, I’m just staying with Clint and he’s chosen that idiot.”

Winter’s teeth flash,but Brock simply ruffled his hair. “So big guy. Do you know Steve?”

“Sir I do not remember...”

“Cut the shit Winter. I’m not sticking you in the Chair. Do you remember him?”

“I...He tried to eat an egg. I...I tackled him...he got confused. I...I don’t understand. He kept breathing.”

“Aww fuck. I’m so fucking screwed.” Brock whined, wondering if he hit his head hard enough into the steering wheel, he could claim brain damage.  Pulling himself together with the mental image of a post-orgasm Clint , all relaxed limbs and sleepy kisses, he took a breath, steeling himself. 

“Alright big guy. One more mission.”

Winter went rigid, as alert as a gundog, eyes sparkling with eagerness for the freedom a mission granted. 

“Destroy Hydra and burn the heads.”

-________-

  
  


Four hours later Brock crept back into the bedroom, the taste of copper and brain matter thick on his tongue, bits of skull and internal organs plastering his kevlar. Winter apparently had a lot of unresolved anger issues that could only be solved by pulverising the heads of every Hydra tech they could get their hands on. Brock had stood just a bit too close to the spray, turning his gun on people he’d once considered teammates, when bullets had met his plea for them to join him on the side of the Avengers. 

Hydra was S.H.I.E.L.D. He didn’t believe in either ideal, only the idea that the world needed to change and that he needed something to place his loyalties in. The Avengers seemed as good a place as any and they had Clint. 

Clint was curled around a pillow, frowning in his sleep, but Brock didn’t dare go to him. Not with Winter peeking around the door behind him, even more blood soaked the Brock himself. 

“Shh.” Brock breathed, nudging Winter along until they reached the bathroom, Clint not so much as twitching when Brock locked the door behind them. 

Winter was bouncing on the balls of his feet, blood dripping from his hair and splattering on the pale white tile. Brock pitied the poor bastard that was cleaning the trail they’d left from the garage to Clint’s floor. 

“Bath time. Come on Winter, you’re disgusting.” Turning the knobs on the shower until he got the water just shy of scalding, Brock nodded at Winter. “Look! Hot water! Not the hose. Even though right now I think you could use the hose. High powered water is great at getting blood out from under your fingernails.” Ignoring his own state, Brock began to help Winter out of the complex series of zippers and snaps that held on his tactical gear. Soon Winter stood naked in front of him, wearing only his mask, and with only the slightest bit of hesitation, Brock reached up and unbuckled it. 

Winter rubbed his cheek against his flesh shoulder, smearing the bit of stubble that had formed with blood. Brock took a long moment just to stare at the man, trying to convince himself he was wrong. That the face staring back at him wasn’t that of Bucky Barnes. When that failed, he nudged Winter into the shower, stripping off his own clothes to quickly join him.  When you lived in Army barracks and shoved each other’s guts back in on a regular basis, you tended to lose your sense of modesty. 

Clean, Brock dressed himself in well worn jeans and a ragged T-shirt.  An attempt to stuff one of his own T-shirts over Winter’s head resulted in a tear that not even Steve’s skill with a needle and thread would fix. Thankfully their clothes had long since mixed after a year of running missions together, and he had a pair of sweatpants and an old SSR shirt that fit the Soldier. Who looked far from impressed with his new clothes. 

“Steve now?”  Winter fidgeted, nipping at Brock’s fingertips as he carefully put the final touch in the assassin's hair. 

“Let me wake Clint up.” 

Pulling the item he’d stopped to get on their little outing from a very terrified florist, Brock approached the bed, bending to press a kiss to Clint’s forehead. “Hey baby. Time to wake up.” Tickling his face with the purple lilies, Brock was met with beautiful sleep scrunched eyes, as Clint blinked up at him, frowning as he patted the nightstand for his hearing aids. 

Brock waited until they were in place, before peppering Clint’s face with kisses. ‘Hey gorgeous.”

“What did you do?” Clint yawned, treating him to morning breath as he studied the lilies “Am I supposed to put these on your casket?”

“They’re purple! You love purple!”

Clint kissed his cheek “They are very nice. Thank you. Now what did you do that I have more flowers?” 

Brock took Clint’s face between his hands. “You know that I love you more than anything right?”

“I am not going to like where this is going am I?” Clint sat up, letting the blankets pool in his lap, eyes widening when Winter stepped into his line of sight. 

“Brock, why the fuck is Bucky Barnes in our bedroom wearing a bow?”

“How much do you love me again?”

Clint pushed him away, tossing the flowers aside as he stood, padding barefoot across the room. 

“Hey no one is allowed to see you naked except me and Romanoff!” Brock shouted, scrambling after his boyfriend who simply pegged him the finger as he wiggled into boxers.  He tried to cover the Soldier’s eye but the man only snorted, shooting Clint an unimpressed look. 

“Steve is bigger.” He whispered. 

Clint spluttered as Brock simply started to plan his route to Siberia. Maybe he could squeeze into a tank alongside one of the other Winter Soldiers. That or ask one to kill him. They were good at that. Winter liked to let him suffer. 

Winter tilted his head to the side, regarding Clint. “Nice ass though.”

“He fucking speaks and he’s a pervert?” 

Winter nodded cheerfully. “Chair is gone. Can’t punish me. I can talk.” 

“Maybe I can get Romanoff to break my neck.” Brock mumbled under his breath, as Clint hurriedly finished dressing under Winter....Bucky’s leer. 

“Mine is better.” Winter declared, actually stocking up to Clint and poking him with a metal finger. “Where’s Steve? I want Steve!” Voice cracking from disuse, Winter turned and bolted for the elevator, Brock smiling innocently at Clint, before they followed him.

“I think your ass is better than Rogers’.” Brock tried, only to get the elevator door shut in his face, though Clint reopened it a moment later. 

They found the Avengers in the kitchen, Thor manning the stove, Stark and Rogers at the table bickering over the difference between waffles and pancakes, as Natasha chopped fruit which Banner added to the blender.  

Steve looked up eagerly at the sound of the elevator, face falling when he realized it was just them. “Where’s Winter?

“One track mind with these super soldiers.” Brock muttered, wincing at the elbow to the ribs Clint gave him. 

“Steve, we need to talk.” Clint started, taking advantage to a certain missing assassin. The rest of the Avengers stopped, eyes on their archer as Steve worried his lower lip. 

“Did something happen to Winter?” Steve’s voice was soft, Tony placing a hand on his shoulder. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine Cap.” Brock reassured, catching the glint of metal out of the corner of his eyes.  Clint was smiling, reaching across the table to ruffle Steve’s hair. 

“See for yourself.” The archer turned Steve’s head towards where Winter was stalking into the room, a leopard on the prowl. 

Steve was dead silent for a long moment, tears welling up in baby blues, just staring at the man before him. Finally, in a broken whisper, “Bucky?”

The Soldier paused, ten feet from where the Captain sat, his face unreadable, until he saw the tears rolling down Rogers’s cheek. Brow furrowed the Winter Soldier studied him, a pained smile starting to turn his lips. “Stevie?” 

It was more question than statement, but that’s all Rogers needed. Chair hitting the floor with a harsh bang, he threw himself across the scant space between them, and into the waiting arms of Bucky Barnes. 

“Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.” Half sobbing, half whimpering the name over and over like a chant, Steve clung to the Asset, shoulders shaking as he burrowed into the other man’s neck, smearing the Soldier with snot and tears. 

Pulling the blonde’s face up, he cupped it, framing the super soldier in flesh and metal. “I know you.” 

Sniffling, Steve nodded the best he could, a smile blinding in its intensity clashed with the tears. “Yeah Buck. You do.”

That seemed to be all the Fist of Hydra needed to hear. Fisting his metal fingers in short blonde hair, he hauled Steve even closer, pulling his fellow Soldier into a kiss. 

Someone, probably Stark, wolf whistled.

Rogers was oblivious to the eyes on him, twisting his fingers in the still damp brunette strands, before, dragging Winter...no Bucky, even closer. 

“I did good didn’t I?” Brock whispered, tugging Clint into his arms. 

“How the fuck did you figure out who he was?  Where did you find him? How is he?” Clint turned to look at him, and Brock knew he was reading the guilt on his face. 

Steeling himself, Brock pressed what was most likely one final kiss to Clint’s lips. “What do you know about Hydra?”

 

-_________________________--

Epilogue:

**_One year later...._ **

“Papa, when is Daddy getting home?” 

Grunting, Brock pulled his eyes away from the blueprints scattered across his desk, smiling as he met electric blue eyes. Reaching down, he scooped up the little boy the eyes belonged to, settling him in his lap. 

“In a few hours kiddo. Uncle Bucky and Uncle Steve needed his help.” Pressing a kiss to the mess of sandy blonde curls, he tried to focus back on the blueprints, trying to understand the news he’d been given only hours earlier. 

How had Hydra gotten their grubby little hands on a fucking alien/whale leviathan thing? How did they even fit it in their base? None of the doors on the blueprints were big enough. Was there a hidden entrance? Possibly more labs?

Reaching for his comm, he met his son’s hopeful eyes, sighing as he handed it over. “Okay Anton. Tell Uncle Tony that we need a scan of the walls.”

Nodding seriously, the four year old gripped the comm carefully in tiny, sticky hands, that meant Grant and Leo had failed at babysitting and let him near ice cream. “Unca Tony? Papa says Jarvis needs to scan the walls for bad guys.”

“Will do Sparky.” Tony sounded breathless, “Tell your father that your daddy is on his way back already. Ran into a little snag.”

Snatching the comm out of Anton’s hands, Brock was demanding details, “What happened? Is Clint okay? Fuck this I need to be in the field.”

“Legolas is fine. Don’t scare my nephew you paranoid bastard. No field duty until Steve’s done holding a grudge, which might take..ohhhh another seventy years. He still hasn’t forgiven Hydra from the first time they nabbed his precious husband.” Tony recited, too lazy or too busy to rehash the argument the Hydra deserters had been bringing up for the past year. 

A year of being kept home, while the people they switched sides for went off to fight, had left them all stir crazy. Brock’s own slide into insanity had been tempered by the arrival of Anton, three months prior, but he knew there wasn’t a single car in Stark’s garage that Grant Ward hadn’t torn apart in his boredom. 

Tony cut off their conversation with a curse, leaving Brock to reassure Anton that no, Uncle Tony wasn't mad. No, they weren’t selling him back to the scary people. And yes, Daddy would be home soon.

Fatherhood had never been something he’d considered, so sure he’d die in a blaze of glory fighting for either S.H.I.E.L.D or Hydra. But when he’d seen those blue eyes, so like Clint’s, peering up at him from a cage in a warehouse owned by a human trafficker, nothing could have stopped him from bringing the boy home to Clint. Just until they found his parents. Then when they’d been found dead, they’d promised they’d find Anton a good home with a family that didn’t fight aliens for a living. Somehow that had turned into a rushed wedding and signed adoption papers. 

Brock wouldn’t change any of it for the world. Or even his field privileges being restored. 

“Papa can we make cookies for Daddy when he comes back?” Anton asked, wrinkling his nose when Brock tapped his nose, his accent heavy and thick with exhaustion. 

“It’s nap time buddy.” 

“Can’t sleep. Unca Thor hasn’t told me a story.” Anton wiggled in his arms, mumbling to himself in Russian when Brock simply carried him towards the couch, instead of the kitchen and the store bought cookie dough that he knew would end up in the boy’s belly instead of on the cookie sheets. 

Settling down on the couch, Anton sprawled on his chest, Brock looked at the ceiling, nudging his son so he copied his finger, where a map of the world was displayed in glowing blue. A tiny beeping red dot over the Atlantic and the A of the Avengers tower the only bits of color. 

“See the dot? That’s Daddy’s plane. He’ll be home soon and you don’t want to be too tired to see him right?” Brock tried, frowning himself when he realized just how fast the Avengjet had to be flying to be that far away from the little country of Sokovia. 

“ Jarvis. Zoom.” Anton commanded, the AI instantly obeying the toddler as he enlarged the image, focusing on the plane.

“Jay can you put the camera on? I wanna talk to Daddy.”

“I’m sorry little one but Agent Barton has blocked access to the cameras. He is worried the images would disrupt your sleep pattern.” The British voice held a lighter note as always when it spoke to the little boy, but Anton lower lip was already sticking out, pouting at the hidden cameras that were Jarvis’s eyes. 

“Daddy is okay?”

“Yes, little one. His life signs are within normal ranges.” 

Anton nodded seriously, because of course he’d believe Jarvis over his own father. Brock made a mental note to keep his son far away from Stark, bad enough Anton had happily told the press that Iron Man was his favorite superhero. He didn’t need his son becoming a Mini-Stark. 

The child settled after that, thumb wandering towards his mouth. Brock knew he should scold him for it, but he didn’t have it in him, not with Anton demanding Clint take Trek with him to keep him safe. 

Petting his son’s hair, Brock settled back, both of them watching the steady blink of the Avenjet racing across the Atlantic. 

It wasn’t long after that the sound of the elevator door pulled Brock from the near doze he was in. Anton’s grip on his shirt tightened as he stood, the sound of combat boots and the sudden movement rousing the boy, blinking blearily around the room with a whimper. 

Clint stepped inside their rooms, splatted in dust and blood, arms full of a young man that appeared to be the source of the blood. 

“No. We aren’t keeping it” Brock’s protests were ignored by his husband, Clint flashing him a smile as he grunted under the weight of the man, a boy really, that had to weigh more than he did. 

The kid was all lean muscle and sharp cheekbones, face half hidden beneath a mess of white hair, as he blinked to blue eyes at them. His ribs were wrapped in neat white bandages, blood staining his dark shirt but what caught Brock’s eye was the stuffed....thing, that Tony had bought Anton long after they found him, resting on his chest. 

“Okay Pietro, I’m gonna put you down on the couch.” Clint grunted, slightly out of breath as he settled the boy, Pietro, on their perfectly unbloodstained couch. 

“Daddy!” Anton squealed launching himself free of Brock’s arms and into Clint’s in a move that had the former Hydra Agent’s heart in his throat. But Clint caught him with practised ease, settling the boy on his hip with a kiss. 

“I missed you so much baby.”  Clint’s wedding ring flashed in the light as he shifted Anton around. “This is Pietro.”

“He’s got Trek.”

“Trek? Is this his name?” The man's voice was thick with an accent that Brock placed in eastern Europe. Not quite Russia, but not far from there either. He raised the stuffed toy from his chest with a smile. 

Anton nodded seriously, thumb drifting back to his mouth. “Trek’s suppose to keep Daddy safe like he keeps me safe from bad dreams.”

“Your daddy said I could use him. I got hurt. Trek kept me from being sad. Is that okay?”

Anton regarded Pietro, head tilted to the side before he nodded, wiggling out of Clint’s arms and instead climbing into the man’s lap, mindful of the bandages. 

Brock tugged his husband away from the little scene “Why is our son climbing all over a stray Russian?”

“Because his sister wouldn’t stop attacking us until we got him clear.” Clint’ smile was tense, glancing between the two. “Hydra had him. He’s a mutant and if Tony’s scans are right, that’s Pietro Lehnsherr-Xavier and I really didn’t want to start a war with the X-Men.”

Groaning, Brock slumped against Clint. “Why does he have our son’s...whatever that is.”

“It's a Tribble and since I’m the one who shot him, I figured I should cheer him up. Anton doesn’t mind. Hydra did some damage even before I did. Loki’s scepter was there...and yeah, the files I saw weren’t good. Looks like they were trying to use his sister, she’s got some mind control stuff going on, to control the other Winter Soldiers. They’d hurt him to get her to behave. So he’s with us, so no one can hurt him and she’s more than happy to help Cap kill of stray Hydra agents.” Clint’s face softened as he looked at Pietro who was chattering in Russian with Anton, discussing just why Trek was so awesome. 

“I know that look. Aww come on, we’re not keeping him!”

“I kept you and he’s not willingly Hydra!” Clint called over his shoulder, leaving Brock to slink after his husband, knowing he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 

 


End file.
